Recurring Dream
It's kind of sad. Things in high school, little interesting tidbits of minutiae of detritus that happened during my day, things that would have been meticulously put down in here are now...just have to be forgotten. I mean, these are the odd pieces of your life. The strange conversations in the middle of the night, the swirl of happenstance, the art that is life, the things I ought to be recording...they're happening just too fast to be remembered. Or for whatever reason I feel they're way out of context, you know?
For example...when the philosophy professor in the class before ours asked about the elvish on my hand and we had a mini-Lord of the Rings conversation and it was this nice moment out of the day. And I know I don't even bother with segues much lately, I'm so spastic and yet, that isn't important to anyone and I don't write it. I want to remember it though and this diary is a defense against the future and forgetting that I lived a beautiful life. This is truly what a diary is for, a shield against regret.
Or when the old guy in the lunch room said "Boy, you sure turned out pretty." And I couldn't figure out if he meant the grilled cheese sandwich or me. So I may have blushed for a greasy sandwich, or the guy is slightly pervy, considering he was nervous enough to chuck the first plate he tried to serve it on at my head.
Today we saw the Punisher for free because Hellboy was broken somehow. It was worth exactly that. Violence and rage and vengeance and I couldn't care less. No empathic shocks working there whatsoever.
I have Chipotle. It is hot and good. My mouth is burning as if the upper layer of the skin is ripped away and nerves and brand new flesh are tasting the air, stinging and ringing against the intrusiveness of the tongue.
Last night I had a little drinkie, rum and coke to be exact, and I got so hot and crock-potted in the brain that it was really rather ridiculous. I don't know if I want to completely abstain again or actively try to raise my liquor holding ability.
And we watched Love Actually. And I loved it. As I would, of course, that much Mr. Darcy and Alan Rickman and the guy from the Office requires me to love it. And Emma Thompson and yeah, just a lot of wonderful British actors.
I'm somehow identifying with Laura Linney's character and I really, really felt for her. When you should let something die, but you can't be the person who lets things die. You really can't be the person who murders the universe in little pieces, because you have to look at your face in the mirror.
Here's an idea!
"There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. "
-Anais Nin
