untitled

Occasionally I wonder when I sit in front of the screen precisely what goes on in the world on the other side of the glass, where, I am sure, another face sits and looks into his side of the screen and wonders what is going to happen and what has already happened on the world on the other side of his screen. The words flow to the right. That's what happens, on both sides of the screen. Can one learn to be a writer? Can one school oneself in the trade of wordsmithing, in the skill of placing symbols and icons for things and places and feelings and people and the passage of time and place them together in such a fashion that those who see them eons or even ten seconds later can read them and know what you meant to say? Or is the entire point to produce thoughts in their heads, all different, but all somehow meaningful? Must writing be meaningful? Or can it be completely inane. I wonder occasionally. I had a girl once Once I had this girl and we were together. It was good. I still think about it, far too much, sitting here staring at my screen nearly two years later after the phone call in which I knew something was wrong, and in which I wondered what was going to happen until suddenly with a snap of released tension it came out, that this thing, us, wasn't going to work and that we should probably stop while we were one million forty-three thousand six hundred feet apart in the United States of America. I think I love her, still. Do I? I hope not, for if I do, I am surely lost. That sounds pompous, 'I am surely lost.' But it will have to do. tired Things get harder to put together when you're tired. W---, can you hear me? I wonder sometimes...I doubt it though. For all my posturing I really fail to believe in telepathy or psi of any sort. I wish it existed. But then we might not be free of each other, in the same fashion I am free of K---- Prisons can be much more comfortable than liberty. Fewer decisions.

And here I sit, wailing to myself on an electronic sheet of paper which has no real existence about a girl far from me in time and space. Probably because I have had no contact with women since then. Whether one is due to the other, or the other way around, I don't know. I never got to be angry. Never. I got a phone call, and then we hung up, and then we were miles from each other, and I never got to deal with her when we broke up, because all I had was my images, which were vastly better than the cold and now shattered reality. Perhaps then I could sleep. Knives fascinate me, for some reason. Believe it or not, I don't really think they're sexually attractive, although that's of course the popular belief. A slab of steel, at just the right angle to open skin-perhaps over a vein or an artery. I imagine it would be much like going to sleep. How silly. Why sleep when there's so much to do? I really don't know. If I knew it wouldn't righten me so much. Frighten? Yes, frighten. What wouldn't frighten you so much? The seductiveness of sleep. Oh come on, you're discussing suicide. Not sleep. From whose perspective? Think of the others. Your parents, your brother, your family, your friends. Think what it would do to them. I know, I know. And so I don't. Is that the only reason? No. ...? I couldn't live with knowing I couldn't hack it. You wouldn't be... I know! I wouldn't have to live with it. I'd be dead. - Ah well. I suppose I'm simply tired. Yes, I suppose that's the case.

Should I sleep now? In what sense? Bed. Sleep. Probably. Just put the fucking knife down, all right? Yeah. Okay. On the fridge. Good. You know, I wonder if typing to yourself is a sign of schizophrenia. I went all those years thinking schizophrenia meant split personality and I guess I was wrong; they keep talking about it to mean separated parts of your personality. Ah well. Could you, said Pooh with a tear in his eye, read a Sustaining Book, such as might Comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness? Certainly, you said. W---, W---... This is the problem with going to bed alone.

I really did most of my whining in prose, not in person...I hope...

-the custodian