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divorced's Journal

History

27th February 2003

8:42am: could not win. but he did not have the money for a good time.
It seems that the people I fight against in this plight to reach my life are much more prepared than I. They have hours spent with poor children, teaching them one of the 7 languages they are fluent in. I stay at home, dreaming about things like love and washing dishes for someone with undies on. I stay on my couch, crying when the music comes up. I create little scenarios in my head, where I am not a part of this place and the people allow me to use my power. I take them down, crush them heart first. I use my sexual prowess to find a love that is true, someone to die with. She signed the letter, all yours Babooshka...ya ya. I am haunted by my past but I can not remember what happened. I am crushed by the future that is moving too slow but is much too close. Just like his wife when she was beautiful, all yours Babooshka ya ya. And I keep to my music and I keep to my pillow and I feel that there is nothing to get me up and nothing to keep me down. A mindless battle that gives me something to do in passing the time. And it has been so long since I wrote it all down, since I allowed myself to be honest. Since I have not only wrote about a new conquest, a new idea. Music is my master but I rule it with my tongues. I dream of standing on a stage with an empty audience, singing it out...dancing it off. Not even you could watch me close enough. A burst of life, light...a drape of darkness and you see me dance. When I was beautiful. All yours Babooshka ya ya. And I think about how where ever I go I search for someone worth looking at and all I hear is, it comes when you are not looking. But I am much too sick of it. I do not want a extra piece to this hellish heaven I worship. I just want a little peace. A piece of my own peace. Books, music, silence, a bed...a floor. I dream and I dream it alone, why would I not be alone in the dream I dream alone? A pretty penny for a pretty little girl with white sheets, stained by here own dreams. I need not you to corrupt me, in my innocence I can be a much better corrupter. Watch me as I dance but only if you intend to keep those lids down. I hate hurting my fingers. And he received them with a strange delight, and how she was when she was beautiful all yours Babooshka ya ya. And I am haunted again by the idea of continuing as the person I am painted to be. I need to move away, to be silently alone. For my roommate to call me anti-social, the boys a prude, and the silence a queen. All yours Babooshka ya ya. This is the place I choose to be in, or it will be. Can I make it to that place, where I am no longer held down by my critiques of others...where I can sit still and you do not wonder what is wrong? Is there another question to be asked? Another battle to be fought. Will I go back over this and correct my spelling errors. Of course, in all my glory I am still a geek in a freaks clothing. But sometimes you just want to be nude.
9:31am: I ll take my life, and throw it in your face, I ll take my chance to say it's a waste
It burns alone for only me to see.

I am so warm in this classroom.
Not like a heat that fills me.
More like a warm, not wet, bath that covers me like a fleece.
Fleece fleece fleece.
When will this dark weather go away?
I am tired of the wind blowing away my bangs, taking away what covers all that I hide.
I miss my Lola and my Jessie. It is strange how you try to convince yourself that you have no true friends and there are always those people that keep proving you wrong. No matter how I fight it, I can not rid my heart of my undying love for those girls. I worship the idea that they give me peace. I hope I keep them forever. I hope they get to know me when I am old. I hope they know me. Soon. Soon enough I can come out of it as me. Sure people will assume I was changed by the wild Argentina. But I will sigh and know in my heart that things are finally able to waltz.

A letter for a girl with her head in her pocket, my hand upon her locket. Little girl little girl. They called you Simone, not me but you. Little girl with the pretty dress wrapped around your ankles. Little girl with the blood on your thigh. You just want to crawl into your own death. A violation, a secret darkness that has taken you in. You, with your slightly developed cerebellum can not understand the evil that is inside you. Inside you but not your own. Can you see what I am hinting at. Do you know what I am talking about. If you do, I say cheers to you. Cry as much as you want and forget the thing that hurt you. Let others come in, but only if they ask with a bit of a southern drawl and a lot of saccharine pride. This is not of me, I never tasted someone I asked to breathe away. Nope, it is for those like little Celie.

How I get swept up into books...it is scary.
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