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Wednesday, March 02, 2005

I had given blood in the day, ignoring their safety precautions to cycle home, pale as night. In the night I woke, groggy, feeling the house's air weigh me down. I needed to be touched, on the stomach. I wanted her to be there, but I put my palm flat down on me and pressed with both hands until my stomach forgot.
I wrote 'touch' on my hand, to remind me.

My skin's bruised where the tape on the needle was, my mind bruised from hours in the steaming bath. I feel good about school, about life and especially about Daphney. She's holding me as dear as I hold her, maybe even moreso. She's holding love in her palms, and wants to nurture it. I can tell. She navigates it carefully, scared it'll shatter and leave her hands bleeding and torn. Organic glass is what it is.

I know I haven't been writing, and it feels different than good to be doing it again. Not bad, but like I'm fishing up some more of my heart to try and fill the page with.

I look back through some of it, and the stuff from ages ago seems real. The stuff from last week or whatever... Who cares?

Maybe everything I write now will seem real at some point. Maybe I'm synthesizing reality as I go along.

I guess that's what this has been about. (I'm not giving up, you see. Just don't want to give when I have nothing, or give when it's time I'm lacking.) I like looking back, sometimes. Sometimes it's comfortable and sometimes not, but it normally feels real. I can see how far I've grown. Maybe it's my adult extension of marking heights on the kitchen wall.

But what I really came to say is that I can't write so much because happiness comes across as pornographically gratuitous. I'm jubilant in life and everything: I don't need to write about that. Maybe writing puts suffering in another light.=, but that light takes the secrecy off happiness. Writing it down seems to me like I'm scared it's escaping.

I want to live in it.
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