There's something different about this tiredness tonight. Sweet exhaustion. It's not love I mull over. Maybe it's only when I see him that I begin to dissipate. I guess that means I have to see him as less as possible? But I have to learn to live despite this. My 'leftover love' is just metaphor for a melancholy I have for the girl I used to be with him, before it started going wrong. I had my ways to cope. Cold ignorance and putting on a face of rage and pride. I've forgiven him, I've forgiven myself. I need to learn to be something different. Nothing is ever the same. I never was the happiest. Even then. I can only be happier. I have made my way through. little truths strike me, then lift me up again. Again and again and again /23:15, feb 25
I need real love. I need to be loved. After all this my dream and description of love circle back to the same. Love is understanding between two people, both imperfect, and their growth for and with each other. Unrealistic, I think? I mean I really need trust and connection and just something fucking real. Not just talking or fucking or anything farce. Expanse of love inside our bodies growing and pulsating and extending into every cell. /00:52
Soiled and misplaced. No place and no body can fit my being. Misplaced jigsaw. The filth sits between my abdomen and chest. Sick of temporary fix. Isn't it easier not being acutely aware of every feeling/sensation? how much longer? I think this much discomfort is quite enough? /11:43
Before i end up dead and safe and happy by some road accident or any such inevitable cause, (incomplete - lost the thought) /12:02
Do you need good photos- digital, Polaroid, whatever- to make your love a mortal thing? Without those real things, that substantial evidence, isn't it just phantom? Left to unreliable memory? I mean, I definitely don't function by the normal methodologies, but I weed my way into people's lives anyway. Pull them into my little bubble and when I let them go again they're a bit lost and confused and mostly emotional in some way that can only vaguely be described as 'strange'. or Phantom. Any love I emit is Phantom. it must be my primal urge to do my best to be easily forgotten? Yet I do my little things and big things to twist the scene into something memorable and emotional. Collectively, it breeds sympathy in the aftermath. Cycle of shame. Anyone I have ever loved. How awkward /2:22
feb 26
