Tense.

After two entries yesterday I told myself I wasn’t going to write anything today. I’m tired of listening to myself speak, “so to speak.”

Let’s talk about tense. Tension. Tense-ness.

Past tense. Future tense.

Sexual tension.

Work tense-ness.

Actually… I need not explain myself. The three definitions for tense are all-encompassing in my life right now. See how I take one idea in my title and relate it to everything? Gift? Curse?

OK, fine, I have time to kill. Let’s go at it for a MINUTE.

I’m so bored of talking in past tense and awaiting the future. Let’s talk in present tense. Let’s enjoy the present. Except I’m not very good about talking in the present tense. It’s always “this is going on, that’s going on, blah blah blah.” Whereas when I speak in past tense it comes across as clever life reflection. (Hint: it’s not.)

Let’s try it though. You will quickly note how my imagery falters in present tense. But for the sake of writing exercise I’ll attempt anyway:

With the windows open and the music suddenly stopped, she heard the thick rustling of leaves from the tree just outside. The tree hid her secrets well. The first murmuring of an Autumn breeze was starting to roll in with the night. (lol… this paragraph is total bullshit even though I am INDEED quite moved by the first thundering of cool air hitting my face – not that air HITS or anything. Writing is a total misrepresentation of any truth and now THAT’S the truth. And every time I use the word ‘cool’ I think of the 1920s and Gatsby and shit like that.)

Actually let me not do imagery. Forced poeticism is stifling. My prose previously had a poetic quality but that’s long gone. I’ve some mind to start reading short stories by Nabokov. Even though I have … almost literally a hundred books awaiting to be read already gathering dust amidst my shelves, a reminder of how there’s always something I could be doing… As though owning a particular book is equivalent to absorbing the beauty inside it. False pretenses.

The latter paragraph above was a much better exercise in present tense than the former.

I will be spending Saturday with an aforementioned friend (sins like skeletons, anybody?) and I’m acting all cool like it’s no big deal. Maybe it won’t be [a big deal]. But I’ve been on edge for the last couple of weeks because of a personal mistake. No one is to blame because the emotional repercussions are of my own doing. So we chug on and on inside the roller coaster train.

I find myself once again listening to Crystal Castles. Saturday I’m going to go see The Dear Hunter in Pomona and Sunday I’ll be going to Dance Gavin Dance, again in Pomona. But first! Sunday morning, I’ll be celebrating Nicole’s 15th? 16th? birthday. Someteenth birthday.

The one thing Matthew said to me in recent years that will stick with me 4EVA (because inserting some form of slang is indicative of me not taking myself so srsly) was “You have everything… And yet it’s not enough. You’re still not happy.”

INDEED!

How does such a thing come to be?

Sometimes I write about my life and feel so proud of everything that I have, will have, or expect to have.

Before I make my grand exit and realize that I have failed to materialize any new material, I leave, a quote:

“There is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”—Chuck Klosterman

Who is that person for you?

At this point I’m just fucking around with words and writing and feelings and leaving most everything unsaid. I don’t understand the recent surge of interest in my entries. I’ve been APPROACHED by ##numerous## friends (and non-friends) regarding my entries. WHO KNEW. The interest is transient, I’m sure.

Ugh… now I feel a sudden urge to REALLY write some deep shit about the deep shit I’m in. What an awful expression. But nonono… I can’t keep writing. Even though the words are projecting out of me like word vomit.

I’m finding something very comforting in Ketta’s new blog and Elizabeth’s new blog. (See what I mean… blogs are the new ‘it’ thing, except ‘again’ because blogs were a big thing the early 2000s).

Let’s go dancing. Let’s forget I have a million and one things to say. Let’s forget to feel deeply. Let’s feel lightly. Let’s? Except there is no us. Only me.

Here’s where I’m tempted to make a joke and insert a reference to the fucking “300 sandwiches” story in the news as of late.

Gahgaaahhhhh… I think too much, I feel too much, I observe too much, I know too much, I speak too much, I write too much. I’m over-encumbered by the excess threatening to weigh me down and no matter how much I spill along the way I’m still staggering. Just… TOO MUCH, yannoe? And yet nothing is ever enough?

This weekend honestly can’t come soon enough. I’m going to see the friend that has caused me to avoid ALL MY OTHER FRIENDS FOR THREE WEEKS. But without social interactions my brain starts to melt into a pile of self-confusion and doubt. The tension is mounting high. But I haven’t had any social interaction for about three weeks and my soul is starting to crumble and decay.

I feel like watching In The Mood for Love or My Blueberry Nights or Melancholia. Something poignant that will leave me feeling as broken as I already am. <3

My melodramatic writing style never eeeeends.

Anyway, I’m out. I have to return some video tapes.

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