Saturday, 21 November 2009
10:35:10 PM (GMT)
i'm alone in my room. adventures in
solitude by the new pornographers is playing. my bed is a mess of clothes and books
and paper and cds. my floor is covered in photographs and posters taken down from my
walls. my closet is open and i can see my clothes, and the suitcase on the floor.
bags of stuff i meant to take down to the garage ages ago, a step machine, the shoes
i wore today, a picnic basket, my broken tripod. my curtains are closed but through a
gap between them i can see blackness and the faint outline of a window of the house
opposite mine. i am happy, but lonely.
last night i slept over at my friend's house, with two other friends. we got into a
deep conversation and talked for hours and hours. we talked about family problems and
relationship problems. we counted how many people we'd kissed. i was behind everyone
else, but i didn't really mind. i don't know. i don't mind. we counted how many
people we'd been out with. i was still behind. i don't know, i don't fall for people
easily. i don't trust people easily. i assume people won't like me.
it wasn't like self analysis, it was stating facts. it was easy. i don't mind that
i'm inexperienced. i think i have a suitable excuse which i don't even think i can
and someone asked if there was a time in our lives that changed everything, that made
us who we are, that effected us in a way like nothing else did. and i remembered what
i'd put away. we didn't talk about it.
i'm not really lonely, but on nights like this i imagine that i am.