these broken hands of mine. cut to pieces, trying to type. i have so much to say while saying nothing at all.
i feel alone but not lonely. i stopped calling people. i seem to interact enough at work. it seems my daily limit of social activity has changed and topped out at a minimum.
i know the feeling of wanting to go out and have fun will return. but not right now. right now, alone time seems something precious and rare, like a baby bird in your hand.
xiu xiu, cereal, purple nailpolish and a garnet ring.
i miss sicily. the lemons, the smell at night, the ionian sea. these are things i thought i'd never see. i still can't believe i went.
i miss this place, too. it feels like entering a secret room one has as a child, kept perfectly the way you left it. well, reading half of it is amazingly ridiculous and i have a hard time believing myself and the things i wrote, but some things really strike me. i wonder who i was. oh, goodness, dear diary moments.
the other night, a most peculiar dream of rolling around in the ocean with whales. big whales, but not too big. they had barnacles on them and were completely oblivious of my existence right next to to their blue bodies. i remember seeing the sand and pebbles of the shore, and wondering if we were all just beaching ourselves and this was the last hurrah before the end.