too full...

not in any sort of physical way.

i'm full to bursting with... things. thoughts. feelings. emotions. things.

they're sloshing over. and they're sloshing over into this blog.

which i suppose is the purpose of a blog, but honestly... i started this things with the intent of not making it some boring as hell documentation of the trivialities of my days, and ALSO, NOT dredging up whatever crap is wedged deep down in my dark murky corners.

i didn't want to be the emo-kid who just whines and whines and whines. i didn't want to be the teenager who just vomits up the pain onto a computer page and assumes that that somehow makes their suffering, whatever it might be, important. i didn't want to drain my abscess all over these virtual pages again. its all i ever do. i wanted this to be different. i wanted it to be something more and better. not a quiet, or not so quiet, plea for attention and understanding.

in some ways i've succeeded. i am not emo, or at least, i don't dress the part. i don't think. i don't know. i don't care. also, i am definitely not a teenager anymore, so we handled that bit nicely. and i don't think i'm under any delusion that my sufferings or pains are in any way unique or special. they don't set me apart. they are simply another of the endless permutations of the same basic thrashings and sulks we all wade through. i care about them because they are mine; they are like a cheap room one has spent many years in. the items themselves are pedestrian and thrifty. but their usage over the years, has allowed something of their owner and inhabitant to accrete to them. they are familiar, and comfortable, even if they are plain and unremarkable.

i don't expect people to care. but somehow, they seem to. despite my own efforts to erase myself and efface myself, people keep giving some sort of shit about me. and i don't know why, or how, because this is how i think about my situation, but others... seem susceptible. they obviously see things in me that i don't, or that i take for granted because, once again, they are chairs and tables i've sat in and eaten from for my entire life.

all this being said, the basic gist has obviously not changed. i'm still dragging hot knives over infected flesh, letting the pain and misery ooze out until the blood runs after, hot and red and clean. and you get to come along for the ride!

honestly, after pouring out the vitriol of the last post, i felt somewhat better. tired, but better. better if only because i know where i stand. i can't find my place in reality unless i write it. framing it in words makes it real for me in a way that simple experience somehow doesn't.

now i'm sitting here, a day later, not much different from the day before. but i feel calmer, and rather than raging against the so very many things in my life that cause me anguish, i'm listening to song after song that is specifically crafted to break one's heart wide, wide open. in much the same way, i still read memoirs (is it too soon to use that word?) about november fourth, and the night we elected obama and said goodbye, and SHUT THE DAMN DOOR on the horrors of these past eight years... i read these things, and watch video of the speeches, and listen to these songs, because they all still bring me to the verge of tears. they all make me want to break down and weep. and that feels, really really, really good.

maybe i'm just thrilled that i'm writing something. anything. at all. for the first time in forever.

i obviously missed my calling. i would have made a wonderful goth.