Blogs by Little Miss Aki
Dear Diary of Bad Choices.
11/26/2006 7:41:30 PM
Dear Diary of Bad Choices,
I found your tattered black felt cover under a pile of dry tears and betraying giggles. Turning to the first page I read different taglines of the past I had used to identify myself on the web, attempting out of sheer desperation, to gain some form of attention in an Attention-Deficit-Disorder world.
Attractive Lady seeking Attentive Companion
Lady Luck looking to Gamble
Yeah, so I'm crazy...cure me.
The mindless scribbles of a 18 year olds ignorant fears. There is a real fear out here of not only losing your mind but also, losing your heart. I suppose all of us bastards are in the same sinking Titanic, heading for the bottom while listening to an orchestra whose vibrato, for once, sounds real. How I came to be so out of place in a world where "place" seems undefined, I will never truly know. Conjectures fly through my vision, spinning in hot cocoa mugs, but nothing concrete...mostly just shadows of lost perceptions.
What would I give to have something worth possessing. To have the hug that lasts five minutes but feels like less than a blink from God's watering eyes. To meet the gaze of a person whose being is momentarily riveted on my smile. Oops, that did it, I'm crying again. Dammit, shut up girl and keep writing.
I have never had any real friends. Lots of acquantances, people who I laughed with, cried with, and went beyond the limit to assist, but no friends...no one who at the cost of everything, would say "Yeah, I'm with you to the end."
What a frost breeze blows through the windtunnels of my lungs...to taste the fruit of Knowledge in a lovers kiss, and then, moments later, be abashed and left outside that fair Eden to the cold wind and rocks of frost and acid. Did Adam and Eve wish as ferverently as I that they had not betrayed, had not tasted that wonderous flavor and therefore condemned themselves and mankind to the brutal realities we now die of?
Perhaps if I had friends, real friends, the "Go into Space without a suit" kind of friends...I may be more at peace. But I guess we don't have authority for true "peace" until we're dead in our graves. God told me that I could work all my life to try and better everything and everyone, and sacrifice myself to that end...it would be noble, but it would not gain me anything save for that nobility. I cannot earn immortality. I'm doomed. Afraid of death and all at once, wishing for it with a heart so brutally swollen with bruise and gash that a moment of stillness in this raging storm of wind and fire would seem like a drop of heaven in an iced martini.
There is loneliness, and then there is this...whatever affliction I currently suffer from. Loneliness I can handle. Being a writer, an artist, musician, connosieur of fine music and bad bourbon, I find that loneliness is the easiest enemy to defeat, yet also the most persistent bastard out of all my foes. It is selfishness that is at the root of all the evils of the world, and yet...though I know its face, I find selfishness a complicated adversary.
Am I too selfish to deserve love? Am I too selfish to keep friends? Am I too selfish to live a fufilling life and then die a fufilling death? Do I destroy myself in order to save myself? Do I live uncomfortably in order to live comfortable. Am I selfish in trying to be unselfish?
Such sillyness, this foul night, running perpendicular to my normal brainwaves, like some obscure movement in peripheral vision...distracting but not dehabilitating.
I turn the page withing your stagnant volume and find a page of words.HELP ME you foul, loathsome scum disappear forever and ponder my current state of mentality. Catatonic seems to fit...I add it to the page and keep going. I find lovers rambles, bitter struggle, blood and tear soaked words that jumble together like some foul jibberish trying to rebuild the Tower of Babble. Flowers pressed, popsicle sticks, a frayed sock, a piece of hair, the remains of a burned match...all scented like spring air in the rainforest. The strange refuge for a shattered mind, within some horcrux of minute bullshit.
Does being complicated make me beautiful I wonder? Beauty is only skin deep some say, but many of the Yahoo Personal Searching sleezebags glance over my image and click NEXT. Who gives a flying f*** what you look like these days, in an age of Armageddon where Low Rise Jeans are made in Plus Sizes?
Pish...Pish I say.
There are multiple people in my life I could fall in love with, but who would not love me in return...they're names all three or four letters long...some of them hard to keep track of. In an attempt not to push on Fate's ankles too hard, I have been left behind, staring after her footsteps as other pushy bastards get a lift or get crushed into a mashy redish paste in her toes.
Wait too long and your left behind. But I don't want to be carried along in a creamy plasma state either.
I need to find myself an addiction.
I shut the book. Dear Diary of Bad Choices...
Burn Baby, Burn.
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More Blogs by Little Miss Aki
Dear Diary of Bad Choices. - Sunday, November 26, 2006
The Firebird Dancer - Friday, October 13, 2006
Letters to My Dear Friend Invisibility - Thursday, October 12, 2006
Untitled - Wednesday, July 12, 2006