the conversation has yet to start

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.