2005-03-15 - 5:20 p.m.
I get the impression from myself that I do things incorrectly all the time. If I was to hold a resolution up high, in my hands, using my arms and my will, I am sure I would get used to the shaking of my own bones. The shaking of my own patience. If this I had more grace. If I had lower standards. This diary is pathetic. A three year wish. I feel the end is near. I guess it is just a record of my healing neurology. This collection of words is really a scramble of letters, empty characters. So I know how to form a sentence? So I know where to put my hands when I am lonely? So what? It all feels so inconsequential, but regardless of my conscious perception of this thing. I keep trying to get something new out, to throw down a new demon, but the same one is stuck here in my face, spitting out this garbage which i conceptualize as my feelings. I need to take a creative writing course so I can wash out anything natural to me. I feel like this is an addiction. I feel like I am addicted to this shit town and this let down job and the sickest shittiest thing about it all is that I am not even depressed or upset, it seems so casual, this recognition of a inner war I surrender to without a question. No protest.
