Diarist

I was marked by a diary entry or two. I was determined by a few scattered thoughts, granted thoughts of my own. I was a friend to the people that I was, and a daughter, and an enemy, and so forth. I was all of that. I was. I wasn’t, however, something else. And that is why I am.

Dear ”     ,”

 I write to conclude my writing. The goings on in my life will no longer concern a scribe or a pen. My life will no longer be of record, really it won’t. It won’t be here or anywhere else for that matter. This and only this shall remain. But this will not stand as an account either. For, I dare say, it will not be read.

 I have written to you for four years, three months, two weeks, and six days- a miniscule reign. I being the decisive, manipulative bitch that I tend to be, refuse to say either yes or no in regards to reasoning. So, ask away, and use your blank slate to become something. Become something.

 I can write forever and manage to produce something that is equivalent to no writing at all. I can. But I do not. I dislike the critics who frown upon the not tellings of the world. They find the missing pieces the most profoundly disillusioning. I, opposite those, enjoy the element of the not. I find more in less. And less in all. Not to say that one should refrain from telling a story. No, no, no. I say tell the story. Tell it. And be done at the finish. A page or a word. Neither recounts- if it be the story.

 To clarify my life I begin upon a path. I falter at the gasps of breath you produce. I do. You flatter me. And I flounder inside of it. You expect me to smile. You fond me to kiss. I curve in your direction. But break. And you turn and look the other way. And I shed nothing but scentless remorse. You though, you clarify. You begin upon a path. Away, away. So too I. Me too.

 A million frequents and a thousand less. I imagine that place. I see it too far off. It climbs skyward, and I do too. It goes away. Why it does that, I don’t know. Anymore, I don’t know. I can’t keep turning and turning and turning. I will get dizzy. I already am. I feel sick to my stomach. I feel a nausea. I feel a climb. A rise. I feel all too often. I feel all. And I don’t. Or I won’t. Or the two put together. And I feel.

 Contempt for one’s self is not rare. On the contrary. It is quite common. I am allowed this distinct and real privilege. I am being, I am humanity. I am just a girl. Just a lonely, sad girl. Is that what they’d say? Is that what they’d think? It must be what I think, for I write to no one but myself. Or do I write at all? Is there any proof that I do a thing at all? At all? Perhaps, I don’t search for it. No, not anymore. I don’t search for much anything, no, not anymore. I repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And stop. And repeat again.

 I find the fall to be coming shortly. The pen quakes with the sword. Neither can find might above the nature of it. Here we find ourselves. Here we find the pit of reconciliation, of the found and described pathology. We trace it, right there, right to the pit. We go there and we see it, and we kind of understand. We don’t really understand, but we say we do so everyone else will leave us alone. But really, no one else understands it either. And we all sit there, not understanding, but understanding. And we sit there. And sit.

 I am tired. Very, very tired. I am very, very tired. I have not slept. I am tired. I feel tired. My body aches because it is tired. My mind is tired and fatigued from being tired. Everything is tired. We are tired. I am tired. We look to the night because we are tired. We are all tired. I am especially tired. I think I’ll go to sleep. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I think I’ll go to sleep, because I am tired. Because I am very, very tired, I think I’ll go to sleep.

 Here’s to you- drink up now. Drink it fast, drink it down. Drink it fast. Drink it down. Smile away, smile still. Just smile. Don’t tend to ask, just drink it down. Drink it fast. Drink, and then smile.

Of sincerity,

Herself

Funny, isn’t it? Funny how no one could ever come close to understanding me? Yes, funny. I manage a laugh now and again. Those laughs that find a tear to begin. They scream out in hilarity, in furious hilarity. Funny. No one ever did. Funny. Funny that someone could’ve. Someone could’ve. Someone. Anyone. Funny, just someone- anyone at all. Funny. Just. Someone.

A guy