Music, Insomnia, Part Of This Complete Rambling
Previous - this entry written on June 30, 2004 at 4:47 am - Next

You were my wild companion
We were forever high, high, high
We burned the night around us
Sleeping could wait until we died
You wear the scars of passion
And since the crashing came
You've broken every promise
I walked away

I watched you fall
I was blind to ya
Was lying to ya
Like everybody else who watched you fall
Say they love you but they're laughing
When you crawl

It's such a weary feeling
When you've been stealing from yourself
Wishing the world away
Blaming someone else

No one can do this for you
Straighten your head, fix your faith
Take all the pain inside you
Wash it away


Did I hear you, did I try
Can I forgive myself for not standing by


I was blind to ya
Was lying to you
Said I love you but I'm laughing
When you crawl
Was lying to ya
You fall
I watched you fall
I watched you

I remember the first time I heard this song... I ended up sitting in the living room of the house Rie and Forrest were renting, tears, the way it felt to stare out a window at an empty street, looking out from an empty house, knowing that there was so much I should have said, should have done... and that none of it would happen.

Self-loathing isn't something that goes away easily. I... gods, why am I remembering all this now? Why can't I forget it when the night stretches out, why can I see the rain on the window, remember waiting? He wanted to stop, actually. Said so, to me, to Rie, to several people. I don't know now why it mattered so much to have one last time, one last fling, but it did. I did. He did. I hated myself afterward.

I think it's one of the things I still hate myself for.

Kinda funny, in a way. I'm not sane by anyone's measurement but I know quite a few people who envy my life - my self-confidence. *snickers* I don't think they would want to be in my head. The confidence, the control, the ability to laugh things off, to go on with life... masks, a thousand of them, all of them lined with broken glass and clove oil, painful, hurtful, horrible.

...said they love you but they're laughing when you crawl...



And no. I can't forgive myself. There are some things I've done that honestly, I don't believe I SHOULD be forgiven for, not by myself, not by anyone else.

The weird thing is that at the same time, I really don't feel anyone else has the right to judge me. Maybe it's because of how I judge myself; there are things that I still beat myself up over that no one else even remembers or ever knew.

Part of what I worry most about is this. The things inside my mind that rip and tear at my heart. The memories. I'm constantly afraid that I will do the same things, or similar things, or things just-as-bad, to the people I care about. I would give my life for some of them... I would do anything within my power to make sure I don't hurt them like that. Not again, in some cases. Not ever, in others. *wry grin* Part of why I've enjoyed talking with Justin, honestly. He's almost as crazy as I am, he hurts himself more than I ever could, and yet we seem to end up laughing, entertained, when we talk. A relationship other than friendship (with occasional benefits) would be disasterous, and more-or-less impossible at the moment. Friendship, though... I value that, with him, more than I've valued anything I'm not sleeping with, medicated via, or so forth, in a long time. He's comfortingly fucked up.

*shrugs* No, I don't know why I'm writing all of this out tonight, why it matters tonight, why I'm spilling just a little bit of the blood and tears behind the masks onto a page tonight. I guess it's just time. Needs to be said. Needs... heh.

I haven't really written anything of import lately, have I? No nifty stories. No huge outpouring of emotion. Just... blips. Little flashes of existance, nothing more. Nothing that matters. This?

To me at least, this matters. A lot. Being able to write about it helps, I think. Takes the edge off the depression. I've been writing in this diary for years, page after page after page of text, easily a couple thousand entries by now. Enough that I could try to catch up on all of them and even at my reading pace, it would take weeks, if not months. That's a lot of words, and yet somehow I'm still here, still writing, still finding this little textbox to be a comfort in the middle of the night when I can't stop crying and can barely remember what it feels like to smile.

"Tomorrow, Wendy" is playing now...

...and if he ever suffered it was me who did his crime...

I'm not going to die just yet. I'm not going to make any attempts at it, either. I'm just going to stay here, reading, writing, waiting for dawn.


Tomorrow, things will be brighter.

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