10.24.00 - 1:10:00

I am dazzled.

I am sun-blinded, snow-scorched, seething with brilliance and blinking back tears of fascination and contempt. I am bedazzled, stirred, moved, touched, infatuated, absolutely and utterly and without a single, bleeding doubt.

If you were to touch me right now, I would melt. If you were to touch me right now, I would turn, hmming, and follow wherever you lead, because my poor eyes are weakened by the lingering brightness, and my poor, frugal mind cannot contain certain babystar brilliances.

Of course, cruel as I am, I will not tell you why.

Not quite yet.

[Interesting, that bit really was talking to a specific person, I think, rather than my future self. Most of my entries are missives to my future self, even though I cannot see myself rereading my stream-of-consciousness thoughts over and over and over again. It smacks, overmuch, of masturbatory self-congradulation. While I am not above most sins, I do have a certain healthy dose of self-hate necessary to keep my otherwise easy ego from turning into a rampant, whorish ballooning thing that expands and expands until it eclipses the sun and swallows the moon.

I could swallow the moon right now - green cheese, or slender, paper-thin wafer (body of, body of blasphemy. Yes, I do that too), or something burning with reflected fire that could smoke me, scorch me from the inside out.

Were this achievable through chemical means, I might've gone a bit further than I did. Compared to some of y'all, I'm old. As in: an evening of chemically induced trance-light states does not hold the same romantic, fuck you world, or whatever, appeal that it did, once.

I was so drunk, once upon a time (not so long ago, but long enough. Before I was who I am now. Before many things.) that I passed out and completely slept through several different groups coming by and harassing me to wake up for a trip to DC we'd planned for months.

Hmmm.

Okay, that wasn't a regular occurrence, but contrast that with my gleeful two margaritas (three if they are watered down) and I'm tipsy brouhahas and I think you'll understand the change.

Okay. Maybe I've become a bit too staid. Maybe a party with lesbian jello-wrestling (yes. Literally. Party, too. Not a club.) would do my poor, prim, proper self some good. I'm not sure. Get me drunk first.

Get me really drunk first.

Then again, when movement spins around to actuality, and theory materializes into fact that isn't the sort of letting go I want, I suppose.

To let go - of what? Some dim, staid idea of the mundane rhythms of life, or some last thread of sanity? No - really - wouldn't you - fantasy, theory here - love to conceive some grande passion that you could pursue even as it scorches you, burns you, makes you thin and brilliant and terrible - a fevered thing, enflamed - and fine, so very fine, that the dreaming ones who see you will know the way your skin thins to some permeable membrane, and the very stuff of you leaks ecstatic into the universe.

It doesn't need to be another person, it simply needs to be a passion, something you pursue with abandon, something that tasks you, chastens you - and, maybe on rarified moments beneath the brilliant, glancing gaze of the uncaring sun - consumes you with some glancing blow of fulfillment.

Me. I am me.

And I am too goddamned cynical, and too goddamned lazy, and too goddamned distractable to ever conceive such an consuming passion. To the extent that I do, it will be a shallow thing, temporary and unworthy.

Damnit.

I coulda been fire.]