January 30, 2003
When falling asleep indignant.
Light night, I was standing outside crying. With rain pouring down upon me. Splashing droplets on my cheeks. Making the tears indistinguishable.
Last night, I saw myself crumble and decay, piece by piece like something out of a science fiction novel. And I watched with detached fascination. Mildly curious as to what would happen next. Mostly indifferent, because it didn�t really matter anyway.
Last night, I sat down to tea with a human-size cat in a business suit. A distinguished old chap who knew much about psychology, philosophy, and the ways of the world.
But before all that, I fell asleep reading. Reading a book in which some devastatingly intelligent woman spoke of how young people always feel sad and alone. How they always write poems and stories and diaries full of depression and anger and death. How they�re always melodramatic and angsty and torn.
And I sat wondering where she got off lecturing others. Where, if she had once been like that herself, her superior, unfeeling tones came from.. Because the implication was that, once you matured and got out of your teens, that all those feeling should go away.. and I can tell you now that for a lot of us they don�t.
Read through my diary, or her�s or her�s or her�s and you�ll see that many girls/women/whatever feel lost and alone even after the number at the front of their age changes from a one to a two.
So I resent her and everyone like her. Because if you�ve been there, you more than anyone should feel compassion rather than contempt. If you used to self harm and you don�t anymore, don�t call those who do weak, you should know better. The same applies to the ex-alcoholic, ex-druggie, ex-anorexic, ex-whatever you�d like.
1:17 p.m.