Sunday, May. 04, 2003 - 6:33 p.m.
Ever since you died , things have been different . It hasn't been so easy to open myself up in this electronica , because there is no one to open up to , no one who I know will read each word as though it will be my last , as though each word in and of itself is a chronicled taste of myself .
I've been writing in third person , writing stories that I have never been through , about a girl who I am not but I wish I was , striding alongside you with my hand in your back pocket listening to you talk about Sunset Strip and the salt on the rim of your margarita ; all the girls who wanted to fuck you while you played your guitar .
I feel like putting a padlock on my heart , closing my eyes and denying this world . The quality of these words has been steadily driving downhill , awaiting a crash into you . Only there is no you to crash into .
You never devote your life to somebody , because when they walk away there are only two things left for you to do:
a/ stop living or
b/ find something worth fighting for .
If I could think of a metaphor for these past few weeks , it would be like dragging towards an empty ditch , for the sake of dragging towards an empty ditch . No reason for being on your hands and feet , trailing along in the mud and shit , nothing to go for .
Still searching for another you , I am guessing .
