6 april

isn't it odd how all the clean little quirks we collect to hallow ourselves from Humanity's vague facelessness can be burnt flat in an instant? how all the little knobs and warts and nuances we build up inside ourselves to patch over the great gap in the cosmos can be blazed over by someone in one quick clean second? that one may say: who am i? i sing loudly; i wear Gap sweaters. and in one sharp numb denouncing phrase i am shaved to a dull edge and set on display; identity shrivels in blue volts and smoke.

sometimes i want nothing more than to be tethered to something, to molt individuality like a superfluous skin and bang happily about a harmless blue sky like a yellow balloon.

i have so engrossed myself in your defection as a case study of Man and Disappointment. you are, men are, as ever; it is we who are the blind ones, who do not wish to see. what fatherless girl does not idolize men? do we not worship them, adore them in horror? do we not ineffably trust them, even knowing, haunted by, fascinated by their godlike power to break us? for always they will break us, for always we are found wanting. men! my two men whom i worshipped and then was found empty; gods who have grabbed me by the hair and let fall limp to rot. what is ever enough for you? must every human be always a live wire for you to love them, knee-deep in current and sparking off fire?

i see but you do not see that you will never be satisfied. is anyone ever enough? i am not. i am not enough. you are Enough and you are unhappy and i am not enough and i am happy. i am happy because i am not myself, i am smoked up, recall, into man's blue volts and been patched over with First John and Hebrews and eight o'clock teas. is one's Self not ever enough? no! it is never enough.