I like dreams. I went back to bed after my bladder woke me, for no reason other than to resume the pallette of dreams with which I was painting the inside of my brain, but I was no longer sleepy. < s i g h >
The 'daylights' are not on, as they usually are by now. The daylights are the fantastically bright mercury-vapor floodlights over the parking lot next door, which normally overflow through my bathroom window by this time every day. Maybe Provident has the week off. They used to have a web site, but they seem to be having some trouble with lawsuits, and they are changing hands a lot. Maybe the latest owner doesn't like mercury-vapor lights, or light in general.
I added my face. There's a million things I should be doing, but instead I am sitting here putting my stupid grin on my journal. Lazy readers should feel better--there IS someone even lazier on the planet.
There is hope. I am becoming productive, I am getting up to get coffee. If this trend continues, I might even put pants on! Emerging from the house might be too much to expect, though it would be an appropriate punishment for a lazy New Englander like myself to go to Filene's on the evening of December 22. In Boston. Coffee, pants, and abuse at the hands of crazed consumers; whoa! Don't stop me now!
There. Pants on and coffee in hand. Or is that coffee on, and pants in hand?
Who am I kidding? I'm not doing good at all. I'm just pretending valiantly that I'm OK, but I don't know what the point of that is. It's crazy. Do I think if I pretend good enough, I'll actually believe I'm OK?
I'm not going to do Christmas, and I'm not going shopping anyplace. I'll be lucky if I get the lasagna made before the party at work tomorrow. I haven't stopped crying since three weeks ago, all I did was tie it off somewhere inside. I know this all makes me even more desireable to the few presonals ads I sent this link to, as if I am the very picture of vitality and emotional health. But if I'm not real, then I'm nothing. And as terrified as I am of being real and facing all those tied-off emotional aneurisms, being nothing really is worse. Besides, I'd much rather fall apart in public, and get the goddamn secrets out of the way, than have to keep pretending everywhere--even intimately--that everything is OK. I'd rather be alone than that.
Who knows? I've learned in my life, often, that the most unbelievable goodnesses, the very things I wished and hoped and prayed for, the inspirations I thought I would never feel, and the affectionate desire which I dared never expect from another was precisely what was real. Becoming real may not be an option right now. I will become real when I am ready. I won't wait a second, once I'm ready, and I don't just hope, I know. When I am ready.
I just saw the biggest shooting star of my life, so far. I was out looking at the Moon--the nearest and brightest it will be for a while, I guess--and I turned for no particular reason, just to look at the unusually un-dark night sky tonight. Just as I looked up, a sparkling streak shot across that part of the sky, spanning at least 20°, and breaking into brilliant points near the end, each with a shining fading trail. Two moments met, one from now, and one from God knows when or where.
If I really know and understand another's anguish, how can I say anything other than 'I love you'?
Good, good night.
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