janeiro 14, 2011

in a home of rage.


Things have been a bit hard, lately. I don't see clearly anymore, because my eyes aren't clear; but neither is my mind, really everything is too fogged up-- just like when you are a little girl sitting in the back of the car while it's raining, truly raining, and all the condensation gathers on the glass of the window, and then you reach up and write your name in the glass (only these days I don't really know what to write, except "help", maybe).
Everything that's happened, everything that goes on, every fragile relationship, every shy kiss, every scraped knee and every party and every hazy Friday night, it's all connected, isn't it? Like slowly excavating my own dark cave, piece by piece, full of mystery and peril and night ghosts; but it is my life, my own life.

Sometimes it hurts to think.

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