I thought it was supposed to get easier with time.  But listening to a song I haven't heard in a long time brings it all back so fast, and I thought it was supposed to get easier, but it never does.  The more you want to forget, the less you can.  There's nothing else, though.  I mean, I've read and reread books about life and emotion in an effort to understand and seek light into everything I'm feeling, and all I see is that this is the best it gets, and it will only get worse, and eventually I'll dream of the emotions I'm feeling now because it was so good.  I fucking hate that.  I don't want to hear that!  Because right now I feel like I've sold my soul, and I can't remember why.  Maybe I should write a big long story about what happened, because no one knows.  There are different chunks of the story which people I know all seem to have, but no one knows everything that has happened, and I want them to.  I need to get rid of it, and I can imagine the movie playing of it inside my head, and the analysis of it in classrooms across the globe, everything from the inital deception to the shock and emotion felt to the guilt of so many things including the fact that it existed to the embarassment (it's jack! ha ha!) to everything else and right up to the Sacrifice and the pointlessness of everything and to the waiting for something, like I am now.  I thought you'd have written  or called by now.

But there's a niggling little voice telling me how much I love this, the whole soul-baring, the pain, and the pure loss, and how I hunt and need it, because without it, I'm nothing.  I mean, this has happened too often to be a coincidence.  It's so romantic to think that one can affect your life so much, and that perhaps you can do the same to another.  What do you want to get out of life, what do you want from your life after your death?  I want to be remembered.  I don't want to be forgotten.  And, oh, everyone but myself forgets the date rapidly approaching, the fifteenth of June, in the two-thousand and second year as measured on our calanders.

Have you ever felt that your life was lived solely as a dedication to another person?  I feel like that a lot.  And what really frustrates me is that I feel like the life I've lived for this purpose is unwanted [purposeless] and that there's nothing left. [Ever since I was born I've been trained to serve you.  Am I not all you dreamed I would be?]  And I'm trying very hard to come to grips with this, and finding a new "purpose"... like what, though?  Right now, my goal is to live my life until I hear the new Radiohead album [currently due September!] - and after that?  I'll look at where I am and realign my goals accordingly.  It's like planning a long journey to a place you're not sure exists... you don't just face the direction you assume it to be in and walk until you reach it... you head for familiar territory, something concrete, and move from there.

I hate how in my life there's no distinction between love and sex.  When there's sex in the air, there's the immediate feeling of sickness and badness and decay and wrongness if I'm not in love... the one natural facet of mankind that provides pleasure, and I extradite myself from it.  Irony.  Sarcasm.

You have sent a message:
i want to go to sleep and wake up in a thousand years when everyone i care about will be dead so they can't hurt me anymore

I need to experiment with substances that will make everything seem distant, like those mirrors at carnivals, when you look into them and everything looks near, but when you reach out, they're not there.  I have no idea where to start though.  Something that will spark life into a place there was none before.

Why does everything amazing have to stink of lust?  Especially music.  It's all love or lust, and it's all memories.  I can't listen to Pulp without eyes glossing over.  Memories of New Years Eve of 1999/2000, sitting in a car, listening to the 2000 songs playing in cycle, and Disco 2000 comes on, and singing along.  Then home to Pulp tunes like one of my favourite songs, Seductive Barry.  And Babies, too.  And Placebo is similar, Jeff Buckley is ridiculously touchy, much like a cattle prod hitting me in the back of the neck with each word and each note.  Not to mention Radiohead, and a fucked up deja vu situation involving DJ Shadow and the Mutton Birds.

Yeah, yeah yeah yeah yeah!

And I'm pushing everything away slowly because I don't want to ever have to experience anything a second time.  Time stops and my mind hurts and the last few hours of misery feels like a year, and the last five months feels like a lifetime [and it is, since I feel like I've been killed and am attempting to be reborn] and the last three years feels like a fraction of a second which I want to experience again, if only so I can put what I've done wrong right.

And what was done wrong?  Something quite major obviously.  I want to tattoo my life onto my arm and sever it as a symbol of my willingness to end this.  But it's a lie, because I'm never going to get over this, and I am counting the days until I am hit by a bus or something so I don't have to feel guilty about anything any more.

What did I do wrong?  I wish I knew.  I wish I could believe myself and not have to worry about blame or anything, but there's always something.  And I know it's wrong to think about things, but I lie down every night to try and sleep and I have a feeling which is indescribable... the feeling like I am an empty eggshell, waiting for a fist, or a foot, or a slamming palm, or a slight breeze or a harsh word to shatter me and let me drift into the wind.  Months upon months of counting and summing all the ways I am wrong and bad and decayed and a broken human being, and all the things that I've done wrong, and where it has gotten me as a sick punishment.

Looking at another person and trying to feel is such a horrible feeling, when all you have inside you is a gnawing, trying to let you know you are wrong for wanting more.  I can't think of anything else I want you to know, so I'm leaving now.

Ta ta.
xo