On The Tracks

It's finally getting cold but the trees get no rest. It's still so green. This part of the world has changed and their dead season is ending. They'll have to live year round like the rest of us.

I've burnt a hole in my hair again, with my fingers. When I touch myself it always seems to cause damage.

I've begun watching The Beautiful Lie. It's a modern adaptation of Anna Karenina, and I realize...I am obsessed with Anna Karenina. I have always loved it. I have always loved her. And I can only hope to live so extraordinarily tragically.

So far I have lived tragically, but nothing about it has been extraordinary. Nothing about it has been passionate. Nothing has been loving.

I might even settle for the secure and unrequited love of Kitty, but I just want to get hit by a train.

I like to pet The Kitten's paw right after she cleans it. I like, in small ways, to disrupt her quiet and carefree life. Mostly, because I am jealous.

I restarted my Netflix subscription because it was free the first month and the semester is almost over. I may throw myself under a train because I can never believe TV loves me back as much as I love it. I cannot wait for the middle of December, when every day I can binge a short series and several movies. When I can sink into the my true passion. And write. I so love to write. I miss writing. I miss my old self. I'm starving myself to get back to it. I try to obsess less. I try to distract. I try to distract with new bad habits. I haven't shaved since the last time I tried to have sex- so perhaps it's been a month? My legs and armpits are covered in thin and patchy fur. I almost wish it were denser so I might get away with the illusion of wearing absurd fuzzy pants all the time. I'd say I just love them and I have several pairs.,,but then I would have to find nice tops, and I always have such a hard time finding nice tops.

I've been wondering for a while if I should delete all the pictures of the time I didn't understand. I know I'm going to sell the bicycle before I leave town. I cut Gilbert from all my pictures when I realized I could never do any better than indifference. I don't think I could imagine that point for Scott. I can't imagine the rage and sadness ever subsiding. A small bit of grief may always stay with me, ten years have died in vain. I've successfully maintained a relationship with his daughter without seeing him or hearing him for two months. Nothing will ever mend the bridge, I can only hope to find a nicer one to throw myself off of midway.

Maybe a foreigner.

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