I was going through some boxes today and found an old note book. I flipped through it and found a couple things of interest. One was a poem and the other, something resembling a diary entry.


July 17 2003

"I now know what a tormented angel looks like. She has bloodshot eyes and her lashes stick together in little clumps. The color of her eyes is turqouise, a bluish green, but dull and lifeless. The only shine in those eyes is that of unshed tears. The tear tracks are plain to see. If not for wiping them away, there would no doubt be salt crust on her skin as well. Her nose is red and raw from frequently wiping it with tissues and her lips, instead of the customary light pink, are now rose red and swollen. All in all this angel looks very pathetic and small.
Why oh why do I bring this upon myself? I can't write anymore. I need sleep. Anything to make the ache go away."

I remember the night I wrote this. I do not think I have felt such emotional pain before.

The poem on the other hand is somewhat amusing. I wrote this using "Magnetic Poetry" on my aunt's fridge in South Dakota. I am unsure of the inspiration but I think it had something to do with a distinct low blood sugar level, an encroaching headache and the weather being roughly 90 F every day for the week we were there.

"Diamond metaphors
shimmer on a landscape
of death
My pain consumes me
in the bitter
dream of what will be"

Deep, no? Heh, NO!

I need a way to produce tangible thoughts. To take them right from my head and make them visible to those around me. I get these images in my head. No, not really images. You can't call something that's sound/picture/word an image. I don't even have the right words to describe it. There's a though floating in my mind... Closing my eyes helps to bring it closer. And when it's clear not only is there a picture there but that picture is made up of words, sometimes even a voice describing things. usually my own voice, sometimes someone elses.
I can't even being to tell how this is or how is works. WHY?? Usually I'm good at this! I can tell people things, build a small picture with my words. Why do my words fail me now? It's frustrating. To not be able to share this with my friends. And not out of selfishness but out of lack of ability? No, not that. Just because I simply can't. This is part of what makes me so unique. So unique that to see it you would have to be me. Ah, it is nice to be me. But still frustrating. If I possesed the ability to draw, I could share a tiny bit of it with you. But my talent does not go that. Maybe some day I will learn to put pictures to paper by lines and curves forming drawings, but for now, my images on paper are the images of words. That is all I can do for now and then only when I have the urge, which has not happened as of late. But I will find something to write about soon enough. Perhaps angels..... Yes. Angels would be good.