I want to die from a coffee overdose. I want to reach a point where my heart head asshole colon explodes from the excessive amount of caffeine. Woke up. Got out of bed at 2. Felt like shit. Got a phone call. Felt more like shit. Watched something meaningless and short. Went for a walk. -- The story is driving me mad. It has to have some meaning beyond the page and I cant figure it out. I must have missed something, some piece must have slipped past and made understanding impossible. The guns have to mean something, the air rifles have to mean something. The last line ("She sees that, once you begin, you wouldn't ever want to stop.") has too many implications. Nothing's accidental, nothing is accidental. Im not even writing this the same day, it's the next day the next day the next day. A diary, a day-by-day, implies so much time, implies time, creates a structure of accurate time yet the very process of writing it, creating it, is a denial of time. What does this -- What does all of this mean? What does the setting create? What does her outfit say? What does her intellect imply? What do the guns means? Addiction? Sex? Moral something or other? Who cares, you havent even read this, I wouldnt be surprised if you skipped this day, I'd be surpirsed if anyone read this at all. Hm. Stay, please stay, It'll get better I swear it will get better I promise promise promise promise it'll get better it'll be better better. Look, look:
I went out to the tree by the train tracks. It's dead. Or atleast its outside is, I wouldnt be surprised that it's core was still kicking. Either way, I've never seen anything grow on it for almost a year now. It's beautiful. Unlike all the other dead plants around here (and there are practically none left alive) who seem so manicured in their death; this tree was wild, ferocious in its corpse. There's an old picnic bench-table under it. It looks like a coffin laid out for a funeral or the place you'd go after a funeral for a mourning picnic or a place to have a picnic-funeral. Everything around the tree is dead. The fallen leaves are all pale gray and ashen, the ground is a patch of slowly drying mud. There's another tree just a little ways away from the great big old one. It's skinny and young. It grows up in an impossible way, it was much too thin to manage standing on its own. It writhed and twisted like a thick-neck snake. Rising up it the long out stretched branches of the old-dead tree. It looked like the arm of a child that reached up to its mobile and grew and grew and grew until its fingers reached the dangling toys. You couldnt tell which branches belonged to which tree no matter how hard you tried. A train came by. Loud loud loud. It rattled. The sound of the wheels on the razor tracks was not too dissimilar from the sound of a blade sharpening. The trains were always loud, always very loud. When it left the beams shook, vibrating the stones that surrounded them. Distant screams. Painful? Playful? Birds were chirping. I dont think they noticed or cared. I walked on. A dog barked. I thought of a poem I needed to write. I quoted someone or other to myself in my head and found that fact to be repugnant. I crossed the street. I looked over at the side I had just been on, a few blocks down, and saw a rose bush. We didnt have rose bushes here. It must be the only one. It was in bloom. It was beautiful. The red was so vibrant so vital so bright. I was transfixed by it. I went to it. As I got closer the buds lost their sheen. They were not the same red as they had been from so far away. But still I was drawn in. Their brightness, their beauty was not what I first thought but there was still something there still something there. As I got close I was proven wrong. The petals were in my hand and they had none of the color I once saw. They're pale red. They're almost ugly. Their color was no different than the polka-dots of chick-pox. But their thorns were still sharp.
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