i like the outline of branches against the sky

i like to look at the sky broken apart by branches

Is magical realizm only alive in the imagination? Standing on a platform gazing down at the dirty tracks... the streak of a rat that just flew under a rail and turned into a post. At first I felt the urge to jump. the feeling left me gradually, as i became used to standing on platforms, and in becoming used to , stopped noticing these things. the filthy pit that holds the tracks that hold onto the train. the way that your body keeps moving foreward for a fraction of a second after it hesitates or jumps to a standstill.

i feel the thunder roll through my body. while i decide not to speed up my pace in the tunnel because its not worth bounding up 3 steps at a time to stand gasping for breath gazing angrily at the back of the train as it slows down to the next stop. so close yet so far away. the thunder rumbles through my center. almost as organic as the starteling boom - - -clack of real thunder during a storm on a summer night in my childhood. but this is an artifical boom-clack-boom-clack-boom-clack-boom-clack-boom-clack faster and more furious, metalic and grinding. real thunder never lasts that long... i experienced the fear of it follow the silent flash when i was a child... ' the tree in the back behind your room is old and hollow, one of these stormy nights it will crack and fall on your room '. but this thunder is not distructive, it takes you where you need to go. it lulls your stressed senses. it comforts you and you dont want to get off, you are anonamous on this train. you could just keep on rideing in any direction you want. for 1 $ and 50 cents choosing a new destination. cradeled and rocked in the dark womb of the city. do you get off at the same stop every time, or do you keep going?

loneliness is a disease and ive caught it

realized that you can be with other people and still feel alone. Just because you are all there together doesnt mean that you all feel connected. especially if it is just for a few hours, and then you go home and they go home. and then you are again alone.

"I doubt sometimes whether a quiet & unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it."

- Byron

feeling that ache again. been feeling it for days now. there is a black hole in the space between my breasts. the rest of my body is being pulled into it. my head through my neck. want to curl up into a little ball and lie covered by something. be able to take a deep breath and blow out the tension. a weakness that brings a crackle to my throat. makes the flesh on my face want to wrinkle up...
(1/31/03)

how strange that in sickness i sometimes feel closest to clarity of thought. especially during the almost hallucinatory state of mind achieved during extreme fever. that seems to be the state of mind in which i can tie together somewhat abstract thoughts that have been floating around just out of reach of my regular mental faculties, the fever somehow drops them all into a pot inside of my skull and boils them until they are thoroughly combined and transformed into a new and digestible substance. perhaps it is because, having the chance to pause from the regular rush of everyday life, and at the same time feeling closest to my own mortality, being faced with it and having to remember that i am not some super being, just an animal that will someday pass on. and so that spurs me to think of what IS really important in more of a long term simplistic and at the same time all encompassing way, rather than the somewhat trivial normal day to day.

i need someone to recharge my batteries.

"even after we'd parted, i felt as if i were in a meadow full of flowers."

Ryu Murakami

wonder what i seem like to other people. people that dont know me, or dont really know me.

" We were allowed to play when we were small, but then, just before reaching maturity, we were sorted and classified. Being a high school student was the first step toward becoming a domestic animal. "

.........................

" My father fell silent again for several minutes. At times like this, the ticking of a clock is as loud as a drum. An odd little thought popped into my head: no matter what sort of shit is happening, time just keeps on passing by. "

- Ryu Murakami
Sixty-Nine