I had been wanting to cry since last night; it finally took to reading Finding Forrester to get the waterworks flowing. That in itself is sad, cause the book really isn’t that good. There seems to be so much missing from the story. However, the ending was sappy enough for me to shed a tear or two, and that was enough to get the rest of the tears out.
Even though I was crying in my bed, the tears that I cried were meaningless to me. There was no meaning or emotion behind the tears that I cried. A part of me tried half heartily to associate some emotion with the tears, to no avail. It was like the tears were just part of some sick routine that I was performing. And I guess they were; it seems that everything that I do is just some sort of sick and tired routine that I am curse to follow until the end of time, like a cursed Sisyphus,forever trying to push a boulder uphill in Hades.
I had planned on going to the Pride Parade today and just hang out downtown. I was hoping Brent would call so I would have somebody to go with, but he hasn’t called. And I really don’t want to go by myself. While it would be nice to be at a place where people would accept me just the way that I am, I just feel like staying in the safety of my house which needs to be cleaned. Like an alchemist searching for a sorcerer’s stone, I clean my room and my house in hopes that I will uncover the secrets of life or at the very least find some measure of happiness
Current mood: apathetic
Current music: 10,000 Maniacs – Hey Jack Kerouac
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horangee
A 50-something pretending to live in California.
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