There is nothing to talk about today. The conversation has yet to start, so of course there is no talking. What is it about talking, a projection of thoughts, that make your ideas clear and your thoughts less opaque to yourself? At least to me. Stuck with myself, my thoughts run and run in a circle, they never get anywhere and they never become anything more than what they are, thoughts that run around in a circle.
Today I am wearing white. I don't wear white, usually, but today I am wearing white, to mourn, and to celebrate. Not really. Maybe I should be more concise. I wear white today because I want to mourn and want to celebrate. What, I don't know. I want to mourn many things. My paranoid self, for example. My fear of my paranoid self, for another example. My complete and exceedingly tiring tendency to self-destruct. My boredom. My ability to put up with boredom. I keep writing boredome. As if boredom itself is a dome that's going to suffocate me to death in five minutes. Except it's not a dome, and I am not dead.
I am going to see a therapist. I am going to get a tatoo. Magnolias blooming on my shoulders. From my body beautiful things should grow. Instead of what? Instead of storms. Mini storms that wreck my head and leave me ravaged and empty.