![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
LIKE A ROLL OF TOILET PAPER
Aug. 2nd, 2003 04:43 amI've just been out of it all day, I think. It's been weird, this feeling. I keep on imagining things in my head, hearing lines that seem part of a story. I think, maybe this is what happens when I read Yoshimoto's stuff, I start to think too much.
I think of everything in terms of story, describing what I see and observe in literary terms. I thought to myself, San Francisco is kind of like a bubble, in how it seems so separate and different from the rest of the world surrounding it. And maybe it's appropriate, how different and set apart we are, and how close to the edge of everything, the tip and brink of the unknown. The edge of the OCEAN, the edge of the world...
So this bubble, it's made of this invisible, this immaterial. It looks like fog when you get close to it, and when you pass by the outer edges, which always seem to shift and change, your hair curls, your skin tingles, and everything vibrates from your scalp to your ankles. Those kind of feelings don't seem to travel horizonally, like from your ankle to your toes, so they stop there, and it numbs you, like a sharp, stinging cold. Reality's like that, stepping out from the dream world and the difference that San Francisco is, all at once. There's parts of the city where it seems like two different worlds have been divided like a puzzle, and are forced next to one another.
Sometimes you walk the border of that bubble, sometimes you walk all in the inside, and everything seems transluscent and okay. So you never know when you're getting slapped by the reality of the sides, thrown out into a new world you haven't had time to adjust to them.
I got an email from my dad today. He almost died this week.
Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe he is, so I guess it's really hard to tell. But I kept thinking to myself, how horrible it would be if I really had lost my dad. I wouldn't have been able to take it if Kathleen or someone had just called me up and said, "Mer... something's happened to your dad." I heard that once before, the hysterical screams of my mom over the answering machine. I don't want to remember that day, or the funeral, or any of that ever again. I want to be the first one to die, not my family, not my friends. I can't take any more loss. Once was bad, twice, three times, four times! It was enough! Two funerals was enough, five deaths, an orphan... all this melodrama. It follows me in my blood, is part of me. I bring it with me like some stinking curse, and I hate myself for it.
Our friendships are deteriorating. I don't have the immaturity to believe it's all my fault; everyone's partly to blame, but you have to understand me for a minute here... it's so sad to be in the middle of something that's dying, forced to watch this thing on the sidelines. You want to do something, you want to help, you want to believe that it's not happening. But everyone's splitting from everyone else, and no one seems to want to stop it. Trying seems futile, too.
People stop holding to their promises, people become so achingly apathetic, you want to slap them, jolt them with something, fill their lives and minds with a substance that would awake them to the way they were when you first met, when things were intriguing, thrilling, amazing, and wonderful. Simple things start irritating you, and stop making things better again.
Who we turn to... for what anymore? People seem to have lost sight over what friends are for and everything.
So I'm just sitting here, thinking this, imagining this, observing everything, hearing people talk. There's a bubble, the wall of translucense, fading in and out, sending chills up and down my spine. So much I've already lost, and probably will continue to lose whether I do something or not. Sights, smells, sounds, touches, tastes... weird dreams, like that sixth sense that is considered a 'talent' in some games.
Life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.
I can't hold grudges. I can be angry at people and try not to forget wrongdoings to my name, my heart, my friends. I can pretend to be strong. We split our different ways tonight, and we might split sooner, farther, widening the crack until it's like the Mariana Trench. Deep, fathomless, almost, but we'll have that unquenchable desire, deep inside us to explore it, cross it, become one with it.
How sappy and grotesque I must sound. I think I like the appearance of my own words on a screen, the sound of my fingers typing on a laptop keyboard. It should be recorded and made into some sort of soothing and gentle tape to lull people to sleep, the way ocean sounds and classical music are.
Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.
Those are true friends. Are you mine?
I think of everything in terms of story, describing what I see and observe in literary terms. I thought to myself, San Francisco is kind of like a bubble, in how it seems so separate and different from the rest of the world surrounding it. And maybe it's appropriate, how different and set apart we are, and how close to the edge of everything, the tip and brink of the unknown. The edge of the OCEAN, the edge of the world...
So this bubble, it's made of this invisible, this immaterial. It looks like fog when you get close to it, and when you pass by the outer edges, which always seem to shift and change, your hair curls, your skin tingles, and everything vibrates from your scalp to your ankles. Those kind of feelings don't seem to travel horizonally, like from your ankle to your toes, so they stop there, and it numbs you, like a sharp, stinging cold. Reality's like that, stepping out from the dream world and the difference that San Francisco is, all at once. There's parts of the city where it seems like two different worlds have been divided like a puzzle, and are forced next to one another.
Sometimes you walk the border of that bubble, sometimes you walk all in the inside, and everything seems transluscent and okay. So you never know when you're getting slapped by the reality of the sides, thrown out into a new world you haven't had time to adjust to them.
I got an email from my dad today. He almost died this week.
Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe he is, so I guess it's really hard to tell. But I kept thinking to myself, how horrible it would be if I really had lost my dad. I wouldn't have been able to take it if Kathleen or someone had just called me up and said, "Mer... something's happened to your dad." I heard that once before, the hysterical screams of my mom over the answering machine. I don't want to remember that day, or the funeral, or any of that ever again. I want to be the first one to die, not my family, not my friends. I can't take any more loss. Once was bad, twice, three times, four times! It was enough! Two funerals was enough, five deaths, an orphan... all this melodrama. It follows me in my blood, is part of me. I bring it with me like some stinking curse, and I hate myself for it.
Our friendships are deteriorating. I don't have the immaturity to believe it's all my fault; everyone's partly to blame, but you have to understand me for a minute here... it's so sad to be in the middle of something that's dying, forced to watch this thing on the sidelines. You want to do something, you want to help, you want to believe that it's not happening. But everyone's splitting from everyone else, and no one seems to want to stop it. Trying seems futile, too.
People stop holding to their promises, people become so achingly apathetic, you want to slap them, jolt them with something, fill their lives and minds with a substance that would awake them to the way they were when you first met, when things were intriguing, thrilling, amazing, and wonderful. Simple things start irritating you, and stop making things better again.
Who we turn to... for what anymore? People seem to have lost sight over what friends are for and everything.
So I'm just sitting here, thinking this, imagining this, observing everything, hearing people talk. There's a bubble, the wall of translucense, fading in and out, sending chills up and down my spine. So much I've already lost, and probably will continue to lose whether I do something or not. Sights, smells, sounds, touches, tastes... weird dreams, like that sixth sense that is considered a 'talent' in some games.
Life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.
I can't hold grudges. I can be angry at people and try not to forget wrongdoings to my name, my heart, my friends. I can pretend to be strong. We split our different ways tonight, and we might split sooner, farther, widening the crack until it's like the Mariana Trench. Deep, fathomless, almost, but we'll have that unquenchable desire, deep inside us to explore it, cross it, become one with it.
How sappy and grotesque I must sound. I think I like the appearance of my own words on a screen, the sound of my fingers typing on a laptop keyboard. It should be recorded and made into some sort of soothing and gentle tape to lull people to sleep, the way ocean sounds and classical music are.
Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.
Those are true friends. Are you mine?
