rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


That was wack. I've never been in a bar fight, but I've had enough chiropractic adjustments to know what it must feel like after being in one. At least this doesn't leave bruises, and there's no blood to be washed out of my clothes, but I feel like I've been knocked over the pool table and into the jukebox a couple of times. I was so exhausted that I fell asleep in front of the television for about three hours. When I woke up, Vertigo was on and Kim Novak was just going into the bay. I envied her. She looked so relaxed just bobbing there, drowning. I watched for a while, then managed to drag myself from the chair and move about for a while, which somewhat eased the soreness in my joints.

Outside, something squeaks each time the breeze stiffens. It might be a ventilation turbine on a nearby roof, or maybe a porch swing. Age and rust. I can identify with that. I recently discovered that a once close friend from high school with whom I'd lost contact long ago died in 2002. These are my mundane journal entries for that day. No synchronicity there. Rather, total detachment.

I'm less shocked and less distressed to find out about his death than I might have thought I would be. I'm sad, but unsurprised, and the sense of loss I feel is more about moments than about the person. This is partly due to the direction he took, the path of his personality diverging so greatly from mine, but maybe as much due to temporal distance than to temperamental distance. What I have realized, with some shock, is that I've felt much worse when any of my cats have died than I do now when I've found that this friend from long ago has died. I'm not quite sure what that means, and I do find it somewhat disturbing.

Well, my head is still muddled from nine weeks of daily headache (which, mercifully, has been minimal tonight, despite the fact that practically everything else is aching.) At the moment, I'm going to accept the fact that I've apparently become more callous than I've been in the past. Maybe I have a limited supply of grief, and must conserve it. Maybe long absence makes the heart grow foreign. Maybe it's just age and rust. I don't know. I'm going to let the cat in and maybe pet her for a while, if she's in the mood for attention, and then try to get to sleep before the sky grows too bright. Maybe I need to dream myself back into touch with someone I might once have been.

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