apology

sorry I haven't written in a while.

putting less and less stock in sense.

loving the sound of that. little else.

last semester as an undergrad well under way and I am, of course, severely slacking.

oops.

but the work-- and how does it do this?-- will get done somehow in between my worries and ramblings over how I'm never going to finish...

the waiting to hear from grad schools is constantly eating away at me. the waiting, its teeth are neither warm nor cold. but sharp, very sharp.

about a wk post the SMN-posts, I told her to never call me again. never speak to me again. and now, approx. two months later, I have not heard from her. every once in a while I wake up from dreams of her and shakeshakeshake them off before coffee and class.

somehow, this does not help me focus or get work done. but I think that's because I can so quickly shift the focus of such attns to another, the stories spontaneously birthing themselves in the dark soils of my imagination before I have time to approve them, my dreams picking up where my imagination leaves off, the inability to sleep well, and so on. even the girls I've met a thousand times before, just let them sit close enough once! hah... I can barely come down again from my own mind's perches; but there (here?) I am, and there four eyes, four hands, four legs. how real and how surreal. and how I can never untangle the two.

really, how can I be honest when all of this is strictly the sloppiness of my own feelings and perceptions in my head? how can I speak it? I cannot help but sit amidst all my beautiful friends, thinking slow and soft, painting their portraits on the walls of my skull-- Well Fuck, there is nothing to this, nothing behind this you've built upon, nothing that will breach the surface of you and come forth, nothing that will ever be known. which is-- granted-- why I am trying to write to you now. if I give up, then I will have to die. (there would be nothing applied to nothing-- the horror!-- and as I've said, not yet, not yet.) for now, I merely enjoy the sights, the smells, the warmth, and the vast vast blanketing network of bullshit going down in Me. most importantly, I don't know a thing.

but for the most part, distance has allowed me to reattain a complete and functional autonomy. it is painful. and I couldn't tell you the locale of the pain. its a swollen pain, though, and absurdly similar (just shaded ever so slightly more pessimistic) to the overwhelming sort of happiness you cannot prevent or explain.

putting less and less stock in the sense of such things. there is no sense to such things. none that I can pick up on. only the sense that I create. and for the time being, I create less and less... I merely remember the soles of my feet, and keep walking towards the finish.