Friday, September 30, 2005

one hundred years of solitude

what a fucking night.
insomnia's kicking in fullstream because of that nap i took this afternoon. i'm an emotional wreck for reasons i don't understand, at all. everything i do to cheer myself up - writing, reading, making tea, sewing - it all works for about 2 minutes before something comes back to me, and i feel like throwing up. i miss chanel so bad it's an ache in my chest. i want to walk down the hall and find her, go out and explore bellingham with her. i know she'd do it. i know we'd meet random strangers and end up somewhere we never even thought of going before. i miss my mom. i miss the two times we sat out in the hot tub, watching the stars and talking about nothing in particular. i miss tommy and regret that we barely saw each other all summer. i miss feeling assured that what i was doing was the right thing to do, that my decisions were only going to make me happier and a better person.

all of this is because of that damn book. it's so tragic, everyone is so lonely and unfulfilled yet refuses to see it, every story ends up bitterly twisted and just plain wrong. i love it. i could read it a thousand times over and again. but every single time i pick it up, i find myself crying because i don't want my life to go that way. look around. who's really happy, 20, 30 years later? there is no happy ending. just endless days of solitude.

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