my life is becoming empty...

my life is becoming empty, reduced to nothing but anxious rooms filled with everything but voices, light shining on the bed and all the wrong places, every day asking my journal why i'm here, questioning what i am, wondering why thursdays feel like mondays (and why i had to discover that from eavesdropping on other people's conversation), writing things that don't make sense in places that mean nothing to me, surrounded by no one but blank tourist faces or sad silent admirers, wondering why i kiss stranger after stranger and feel surprised when they're not there the next day, only a pillow to keep me company beneath sheets and complex dreams, eating to fill some sort of space, cavities to fill cavities, sadness definitely populating - who needs the park, ancient things in museums and shadows of lives observing, consuming the very beauty of existence, consuming until gone and destroyed and forgotten, sucked dry, crying from too much love and not enough sex and outbursts and explosions and vegetables, dying every day from choking silence, trembling voice of time discarded, words and lines and shapes and it all meaning nothing to my hazy eyes and jittery hands and prancing legs, ignoring every voice saying i could be something other than sylvia's or virginia's echo, a bukowski dream and a wandering kerouac heart, a ginsberg howl, bare meals interrupting my sleep - rambling dreams and misplaced affection, kissing the homeless and smoking with the old, dancing with the dead, crying with bliss, smoking and dying with shame, penniless and yet still spending

whole half

i don't feel like a whole person.
i feel more like a half-person.
maybe hollow, or with a poorly-developed outer shell.
half at most, dead at best.

11/16/10

What is breathing anymore?

He was in my dream last night. Lots of other people were in other ones too, but I only care about him. Now I've spent the greater part of this morning wondering if his body looks the same, if he's a good kisser, if he's a good lover, if he would make love to me, if I really want it.

It's not a matter of time, but caring.
The words are mocking me. White blank screen.

What about Virginia Woolf's ghosts? What could I possibly say?

a few bits of nonsense from my journal.

11/14/10

it's pretty funny/ridiculous that every time i buy cigarettes the person at the counter stares intently at my ID to see if it's both real and of me. and then skeptical resignation. seriously, you have that much doubt that i'm over 18? when will i stop looking so young? it also doesn't help that my hair is different and i've lost some weight. but still...
sorry if you were expecting some "real" writing from me. i've been trapped in a world of my thoughts and kerouac and other nonsense. i've been writing gibberish. i sit in parks for hours just reading, writing, smoking, drinking cheap coffee. that's all i've become. none of it is particularly good, but it's getting me by.
to be honest, i'm quite lonely. i've reached a roadblock. i ran into a friend today and [awkwardly?] ate lunch and walked home with him. i only say awkwardly because i know i can be so much better. i know i'm not supposed to be this distant.
i'm doing laundry now and slowly inching towards delayed homework. i want to be back in the park, though, listening to the man next to me playing guitar and singing folk songs. i want to hear his lonely, perfect story. i want someone to share stories with. and fuck. lately i've been imagining having sex with far too many people.
i think my classes are bullshit, i think my friends are bullshit. the only things that seem real, things i find myself clinging to, are momentary, like kisses and hot soup and smoke.
in summation, i feel ugly, lonely, and very lost in my own head. (i need drugs and some good music to dance to. and good people to dance with. i need too many things.)

summarizing my journal; fucking panic

am i really reaching the conclusion? is this it? am i nothing more than this?

i want to murder someone/something/myself.

already [unfinished] 9/19/10

already he was there, in front of me, half-naked.
i hadn't even thought of this in my dreams. even if i had, i had never admitted it to myself, never envisioned it fully.
we had suddenly passed the realm of friendship, liking, loving. we had jumped into the cold waters of half-nakedness.
we had jumped, and barely knew each other.
he invited me in and i didn't know whether to sit or not.
i looked at the couch, but it almost would have felt just as right on the bed.
he went away for a moment, presumably to put on a shirt, but he came back just as he had been.
he insisted i sit, and so i sat.
i noticed the tattoo, on his ribcage, exactly where i've been considering getting mine. i considered his, guessed at the words scrawled there because i was too afraid to stare intently. i couldn't bring myself to look at his smooth, tight torso.
he was there, next to me on the couch, and then suddenly he was beneath me, on the bed.
except not really.
i forced my imagination back to the couch, focused on the other empty couch, the blank walls, the brightness of the room. he asked me questions and i was only able to manage a yes or a no, and a smiling giggle.
he said he liked my laugh, and he giggled too.
he asked the questions and i answered and we giggled.
after a while i asked questions and he answered.

this has been saved in my drafts since september. i've been looking back at it every now and then, telling myself that someday i'll complete it. but not now, i've realized. the real-life situation that inspired this has become stagnant and i think only when that is, um, resolved or solidified (?) will i be able to finish... one of those clinging things, you know? okay, i need to stop rambling and ruining everything.

11/6/10

an obsession with dying

monkey brain

"quiet the monkey brain, or whatever's screaming at you"

my TA said this in class this morning, in relation to emerson or thoreau... and this crazy image began to form in my head. i sat down to write it and it became this beat, this rhythmic thing. it needs to be spoken. it excites me, but at the same time, it's sort of a mess. and it really reflects my new musical persona, or whatever has caused me to block out anything not related to dancing and party shit. i just don't know what's happening to me. so out of focus.

any guy will tell you you're beautiful to get into your costume and underneath the face paint [unfinished?]

all we could do was laugh
our eyes met on the couch, in the elevator, on the dancefloor
we were just characters in that novel, i kept thinking
the different hims and yous blended too closely
and the lights strobed to the rhythm of
my hips moved with the knowledge of touch
and sweet talk
transformation incantations
in retrospect
i listened three too many times
let three too many pairs of lips whisper, breathe, linger at my ear
too many hands
sideways glances to check if we were still okay
if the fantasy was still swirling, if my drink was still full, if my underwear was still on

all we can do is laugh
awake again in the fluorescence
remember the bags boys breads burning cigarettes bundles of clothes socks sweaters

a jumpsuit and leggings
midafternoon breakfast
who thinks i'm beautiful now just the
ringing phone, ears
the chai hand holding mine
orange kissing
my throat, juicy
laughing crying weeping the page

i'm starting to cringe about what i've done this weekend. i might as well change my middle name to Hot Mess. but i love my best friend tomi, and halloween, and new york.