2004-12-07 - 11:00 a.m.
I hate when there aren't words for things. If you can't label it, how do you know it's there? Yeah, girl has linguistics in heart.
I'm fine. But that doesn't cover it, it's the manic-depressive kind of fine, with violent shifts in attitude, which at the end of the day, can all broadly be classed as fine. Does that actually mean I'm fine though? See, that's where I start to get confused. But I know I'm not unfine. Maybe I should leave it there ... not unfine.
I put a dress I don't need and can't afford on layby today. When I tried it on it made me feel like ... anything could be possible. The material was soft and seductive and whispered to me that it could give me the world. So I gave it what it wanted.
I'm such a fool, aren't I.
Oh well. I suppose human fallibility could have worse results than obsessions with pieces of cloth, hm?
The holidays are a mix of chores and surprises. I find pleasure and insight in different corners, which is lovely. But I still crack occasionally, like humpty after he ended his association with the wall.
Happily, I don't bother to involve those incompetent king's men, and I tend to know the pieces well enough to just, after giving myself a minute or three hundred, slot the pieces back together and keep going.
So it's no big deal. I guess. I still flounder about a lot, for different reasons. Out of nowhere things strike my brain that haven't even been contemplated before, and this tends to leave me reeling.
Like ... the things I hadn't realised I missed; when they impact, the sensory experience is ... it's somewhere between a tender carress and being slapped in the face with a fish.
But I'm fine, so fine. I have a new dress. Or a 5th of one anyway. I'm not sure if it'll ever get out of my house, but. When I have it the potential will be there. I'll have potential. It's the only thing I breathe sometimes.
I'm fine. But that doesn't cover it, it's the manic-depressive kind of fine, with violent shifts in attitude, which at the end of the day, can all broadly be classed as fine. Does that actually mean I'm fine though? See, that's where I start to get confused. But I know I'm not unfine. Maybe I should leave it there ... not unfine.
I put a dress I don't need and can't afford on layby today. When I tried it on it made me feel like ... anything could be possible. The material was soft and seductive and whispered to me that it could give me the world. So I gave it what it wanted.
I'm such a fool, aren't I.
Oh well. I suppose human fallibility could have worse results than obsessions with pieces of cloth, hm?
The holidays are a mix of chores and surprises. I find pleasure and insight in different corners, which is lovely. But I still crack occasionally, like humpty after he ended his association with the wall.
Happily, I don't bother to involve those incompetent king's men, and I tend to know the pieces well enough to just, after giving myself a minute or three hundred, slot the pieces back together and keep going.
So it's no big deal. I guess. I still flounder about a lot, for different reasons. Out of nowhere things strike my brain that haven't even been contemplated before, and this tends to leave me reeling.
Like ... the things I hadn't realised I missed; when they impact, the sensory experience is ... it's somewhere between a tender carress and being slapped in the face with a fish.
But I'm fine, so fine. I have a new dress. Or a 5th of one anyway. I'm not sure if it'll ever get out of my house, but. When I have it the potential will be there. I'll have potential. It's the only thing I breathe sometimes.
