I can feel the sickness spreading now. There's the earthy, acrid feeling during exhalation, the weariness of my joints, the slight dizziness and self-lag when I move quickly, the endless slightly upset stomach that feels a good deal like hunger... And above all lies the hot, rotten feeling in my core. Fuck.
I'd written in a not-so-lucid moment on the back of an essay, "How can I be sure I'm me?" This feeling came back last night after the show. Moondog didn't actually perform 'cause he didn't have a song and didn't have time to prepare. Instead, we commiserated on the energy of Rainbow Alley and the fact that we don't talk much. This nugget of info seemed to have originated from Samir having talked a good deal with Andrew today. It's a good point, Moondog and I don't really just talk all that much. We discussed this over water and a chocolate shake at Arby's during closing time and some over IM. When we were in person though, I had the feeling that I really wasn't the one talking; I don't mean this in the otherworldly sense, so much as the fact that I wasn't sure I really understood what I was saying.
Now that I've put down my goddamned book, I feel frustrated at the fact that we should have to worry about this at all, that we need to schedule time to talk. Perhaps I've gone nineteen, but mates shouldn't have to do that. Waiting is. Talking will happen when it needs to happen, and perhaps it does, but are we approaching this in the wrong way? Are we being goaded into action by shadows? Or perhaps I'm just out of my mind. Yar-bugger.
Hey, I found reading again. In case you didn't notice.
As a side note, I've not cried in years. I feel like, since I cried so much as a child, I must conserve my tears, mete them out in the proper amounts at the proper times, lest I have none when they're needed most