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So I thought I should fill you in on what's been going on this past few weeks. As you'd probably guess, I haven't been that strong.
Isn't this exactly where you'd like me?
The first thing you should know is that he payed me a visit last night. I think it was between the hours of 5 and 6 when we collided. We just looked at each other and there wasn't a single sound, but the sound of us breathing each other in. It was nice, the way everything seemed to pause for a minute. All sound and colour disappeared and we were left in a state of controlled lust. And then the next thing I knew, I was asking him to take a walk. Another 'him', another walk, it seems that walking is the only way I can deal with situations. I remember feeling his arm against mine and he felt warm and strong. Soon enough, walking turned into running andI don't know what happened after, but he disappeared and I was left alone.
That pain is back again. I'm sure you know which one I'm talking about. The aching, the pounding, the thinking,the breathing, the lack of concentration. But please, don't be too alarmed. I know what I'm doing and I'm aware that I cannot prolong this strange affair. It's not in my hands.
I'm exactly where you'd like me.
I'm trusting you with this revelation because only you can understand what I mean. If anyone else knew, I surely would not hear the end of it. I can only imagine the looks on people's faces, nevermind what they'd say if they knew. No matter how many warnings or well intentioned words of advice I'd be given, it'd all be a waste of breath.
I smile and nod. I am calm because this is not something I chose. I do not ask for his visits but I do admit to waltzing along in his chase. We go back and forth, I find my self wandering over to him and other times I spot him lingering around me, or I look up just in time for our eyes to meet in an forbidden embrace.
What a shame the poor groom's bride is a whore.
So then I walked out the doors only to have the truth hollered at me, ''Sinner! Oh my gosh, you even look like a sinner! I know you're a sinner, get over here'' and I knew by the most honest of ways that I'm tainted, ashamed and helpless.
This is a fever I can't sweat out.

I woke up Sunday afternoon after a tiring night. I walked over to the mirror and it took me a moment to realize that it was my face staring back at me; red lipstick outlining thin lips that were hiding a smirk, blackened eyes with an air of cluelessness, my hair falling around my shoulders in coils. I remember looking at my red and black eyelash extensions on my desk and feeling my fishnets under my feet where I stood. I couldn't help feeling like dispensible. Why? Because it was reflected back to me in the mirror and it only strengthened my belief that I am not worth that much.
I can't help but to wish for simple things, like people using my name to address me. Or even, holding the door open for me to pass through out of courtesy rather than as an act of obligation.
I don't know who to blame for this oddity but I hope you can bear with me through this time.

We had been out driving too long. I sat in the passenger seat as you drove us and it killed me that the night ended this way. To hear the frustration in your voice, the tension seeping through your words was such a poignant moment that I couldn't help but to go from detatched laughter to a stale look of despair. There were too many tears in too many people's eyes. I mentioned earlier during dinner that there are so many things I don't know about your past and I have to admit, it was so strange seeing the water in your eyes, sparkling from the light of the dashboard that displayed the gear was set to park. We had gone from 100K to no speed at all. In the absence of light, I depended on my hearing to deliver to me the state of your being. The soft snuffles of your sobs so unfamiliar, your hands were nothing but shadows moving to your eyes to wipe away tears of pure desperation meant that you really had enough. I didn't know whether to sit in silence or to attempt to comfort you with my inexperienced words. I trie to the best of my ability to describe to you the feeling you couldn't comprehend but my explanations had no credit. You said that hugs don't feel like they used to and kisses don't even fix anything anymore. You said something changed between you two. You expressed your anguish as to whether there's a point to it anymore and I restrained myself wisely from saying that, well in big picture there is no point. I had seen that my analytical statements had probaly gotten us to this intersection at this time so I rolled down the window at the red light to take in the autumn night. You were right. This is a beautiful season. There's a certain stillness that solidifies the fact that things have changed, perhaps more than we are aware of and each night we spend on highways and backalleys leads us to a new epiphany, a truth that we face with bitterness because we feel cheated, robbed and taken for fools.
Why is there so much darkness?

And I'm not sure what the trouble was
That started all of this
The reasons all have run away
But the feeling never did.

I've come to understand this fear of darkness many people seem to have. It's just before midnight on a Saturday and these fluoresent lights make me forget that I'm underground. Sitting in the last car of the train, I'm going through these motions backwards in what is essentially a back track of steps. I've come to anticipate where I'm headed even though it's with my back turned against the destination. A few moments of illumination outside the train as it waits at the platform while people hurry in an out, desperately trying to avoid being caught in the closing doors because being caught in between here and there is always embarrassing. I watch through the window as the the train pulls away and leaves behind the scatter of heads and arms of people who are still waiting to be taken away. I watch the image of the platform shrink, getting smaller and smaller until there's nothing but a dark tunnel. There's tension in the train, I feel the entire car anxiously draw in air as if there's a chance we won't get out. I can't even see the tracks the train is on, I just sit and focus on feeling the decrease in acceleration of the train. I listen to the creaks of metal on metal, gazing through the window and focus my eyes to see my image alone in a frenzy of people with places to be. Complacent, I examine this reflection of myself surrounded by people. I try to feel the joy of togetherness of this picture, I even attempt to shape my mouth into the closest thing to a smile for this makeshift family photo, but I'm reminded of the reality of the situation as people exit the frame. It sets in that the train has stopped because people need to leave, eventually. I turn away from the window and look at the few empty seats next to me until I realize the entire car is bare. I sit in a few moments of uncomfortable silence between the window and I before there's that expected decrease in speed which indicates that I'm nearing a journey's end, or that I'm back where it began. Depending on how you look at it, it's as if the night might as well have never even happened.

I wear a smile, I wear a laugh. In the back stage changing heads, I am a weekday on weekends and I hate my best friends. Spoken, choked up on my notes. This heart drones as I try and act adult but like a walkmen fall to pieces, all parts no heart. See me change, changes are no good. All the world's deranged and I'm left crushed. People delayed are in a rush. I'm on a roll but I might throw up, will I ruin my make-up?
See me change, changes are no good.

I roll the window down and then begin to breathe in the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen from the passenger seat as you are driving me home. Then looking upwards, I strain my eyes and try to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home. "Do they collide?" I ask and you smile. With my feet on the dash, the world doesn't matter.

I want the dark and hollow type of sleep. The kind of empty that swallows up a scream. Each day would be different if I didn't wake up tense from having wandered into the far depths of the underworld that is my subconcious. Where is the divide between this mentality and the strong frame of my bed, because you knotted my stomach when you put your hands on my waist and followed me into the forgotten and I just can't live with knowing what it's like.
More and more, it feels like I'm living within a four-by-six inch frame, behind a glass and closed in by a colourless border. The wind is still, the sun is placid and the whole picture gives you a sense of detachment. Everything is as undisturbed as it seems.

"...I'm not good at meeting new people. They always want something. Cigarettes, gas money, a lighter, drugs — I have nothing to offer these people. Not a smile, not a wink. I've got pills but they're mine. I've got thoughts and dreams, but no one wants to listen. I haven't got a microphone to cry into, nor the drama to report. I haven't got a journal worth reading — not even a page worth saving. I have nothing on my vest, no badge of honor on display. No trophy, no plate on my bedroom walls. No family trips to brag about. No selfish habit to feed upon..."

I'm sitting here, 1 hour and 34 minutes into the fourth day of September trying to convince you that everything you're saying is wrong. I'm pointing out the various reasons as to why I'm not smart, contrary to your belief. How many ways can I spell it out? What's funny is that I've been here before. It's happened before, where I've sat down with my cell phone in hand, typing in T9 to a person on my contact list with the utter most determination in hope of persuading them wrong. Now I'm on a laptop, using an instant messaging software to deliver my arguements. What am I after? I'm looking for satisfaction, I find relief in knowing I'm right and it brings a sense of comfort when I sit in bed and chat away, about my life and my problems. I don't like it when people ask questions.


Because I never want to sleep again. Because if I had it my way, I'd live alone and never return home. I'd spend the year driving, walking, speeding along through red lights. I wouldn't worry about missing a phone call because anyone who would ever have anything to say would be within arm's reach. No emails from people from 2006. No place to be but in that moment, no where to go but up.


Maybe there's a bit of me waiting for a bit of you.