My ability to feel any kind of remorse for my obsessions and compulsions have been blunted. The cogs in the wheel of addiction keep turning. Certainly, this diary is an attempt to find a wedge, make the scews loosen, and watch the sparks fly burning. I am sick of artifice, of temporary fixes. I wish to make this construction fall to pieces. How did it begin? With a few simple actions that repeated themselves. Consummation of the act brought the feeling of peace and tranquility, and somewhere along the line also the feeling that I couldn’t live without it. All addictions flee into the unconscious. They become part of who you are. But really, it is to find oneself encased in the amber of an attitude.
I have a talent for difficulty. This also is an attitude. The weekend before last, I made a trip up to school to celebrate Anthony’s birthday. He didn’t want to pick me up from the bus station, fourty five minutes away from where he’d been living, but he expressed that he was willing to do so. Instead of asking him to pick me up, I chose to take the extra bus into town, which meant adding two hours to a three hour trip, making it an arduous journey. Couldn’t I have made things easier for myself? Instead of taking the bus, I prefer walking. When I am invited to other people’s homes, I tend to refuse food. Where does this tendency to refuse come from? Something inside of myself is critical and judging. I feel a Christian guilt for the enjoyment of luxuries. But perhaps this lends itself more to the fact that I feel undeserving.
In my life, pain has a certain meaning. It is my identity. My nerves are colored like the sky, ice blue.
There are few words for the awarenesses that I’m coming into. The mind is a seashell. I listen to its conch. I drop stones into it. I hear the emptiness reverberate.