Day #1.
Today is new. Everything is
different the same. You're drowning, you're saved. You jump over the side again. You're drowning. You're saved. You jump over the side.
We do this to ourselves I do this to myself to preserve a feeling of danger... to remind myself that everything is fraile, everything is chance, everything can die. And then, a feeling of triumph, of success in redeeming, yet again, what always ends up being a fabricated stability after selfishly depressingly dim-wittedly narcissistically having destabilized sabotaged my own life. What I end with is a shell of success. A dark triumph against myself. I do this for pleasure. I do this for adventure. And then, melodramatically, I write about it. My window is open. It started getting cooler yesterday. There's enough breeze outside to save me from my own indecision: the stifling heat, or the sound of the loud air conditioning unit unceremoniously stuffed into my wall. Fall is good. Fall means I don't have to decide. My window is open and now, when I see my mother across the yard, across the glorious body of water that separates us, there's nothing stopping her from listening to me shout to her. Sometimes I shout bad things. This time, the window is open and I yell that I love her. She doesn't hear me, though, and crosses the threshold. Good night, I yell. That, she hears. She smiles. I love you, I shout again, and she waves. I hope she can hear me. The summer is gone. The heat is gone. My window is open, and I can shout to my mother from across the dirty above-ground pool my father made us install one spring weekend.
A photograph was taken of me on my twenty-first birthday. I looked happy. I'm jealous of myself in that photograph... It was easier in that moment, when I didn't have to think about whether I was happy. I was with my family. We were all healthy and excited to be alive. My girlfriend was in that photograph. She was happy.
New idea. We're drowning...
Deep Blue Sea - Grizzly Bear
