2002-08-29 || 10:30 a.m.

|| your favorite color used to be blue. ||

you are training yourself to think down different paths from what has been well worn the past couple months. you make a concerted effort to use different devices, to imagine different faces and situations. this causes fatigue. and small trivial bouts of depression. and staying up late in that cinematic dramatic way to stare at the faux painting of the crashing waves scene you have mounted on the westerly wall, listening with a strained muffled ear for the cry of sea gulls and salt water receding.

you are getting the distinct feeling you are spending hours and hours daily at a very stupid worthless job.

you are getting the distinct feeling you are wasting time. and energy. and the best uncomposed love letters a girl can offer.

you find clues to the newest meanings of your life: a months old now inappropriate handwritten note on lined paper bearing the words "i am in love with you!" in a scrawling hasty hand, stashed under the head of the mattress. unread paperback books. the box of coats that was to be carted to the thrift store months and months ago (recently moved from the front porch to the square foot of empty space in the laundry room). sheet music you cannot read. photographs and photographs, some stolen.

in the shower this morning you found a funny lump on your head and the first thing you think of is your father's voice saying the words "goose egg." and you remember a trip to the hospital in 1980, wailing all the way, your father crying alongside you in the buick station wagon, finding your mum on her graveyard shift in the emergency room, and you stop crying only when she reminds you you are wearing wonder woman underoos and wonder woman would never cry over a silly lump on her head. twenty years later and other words take the place of your father's voice, such as "tumor" and "cancer" and "biopsy" and you know it's nothing and you wash the shampoo out of your eyes, but.

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