Feb. 07, 2003 - 10:47 p.m.
I'm sitting in the dark, immensely absorbed by the way the fan stirs the smoke at the end of my quickly burning cigarette. I have old favorites playing in the background as I realize that this life I have fashioned has been built on a shaky foundation.
I have just collected bits and pieces and glued them together in a haphazard fashion. I make outrageous statements without even taking the time to evaluate what I truly believe once the rhetoric is discarded.
And I realize, I have not been entirely honest with you.
Now that may or may not change. This small world that is my journal is mine to shape and create. The images I imbue in my writing are specifically designed to evoke a response.
What would happen if I ripped apart the veil that hides me from the world?
Would you still avidly await the next installment?
What is so glamorous about a girl trapped in an aging body, with sad eyes, huddled in her comfort clothes of sweatpants and an old ragged t-shirt, glasses perched on the end of her nose and Wakko slippers hugging chilled feet?
I'm in the middle of a chaotic mess as I sit at this stained keyboard. The piles of empty cigarette packs tumble over the scented candles and a metal dragon stares at me, propped against a glass filled with day old tea. At least the walls are finally a soothing color.
Standing in the midst of computer paphernalia is a lone bottle of witch hazel, the generic brand. A red silk bra askew on the printer is the only vibrancy in this room.
But there is satisfaction in the air as I run my hand over the small bruise on my neck. Sex is here despite my ordinary, geek inspired habitat. These normal surroundings barely conceal the energy that lives in this small space. This, more than any other spot in the house, belongs to me. It has my signature all over it. I am the only person who can sit comfortably in this chair.
It pricks the back of my neck when another invades this space. My identity is so entangled in this physical location, this place where I have shared truths and spread lies. A house built out of cards it may be, but it is my house.
Since there is no one to draw the line between what is real and what is imagined in this day and age, who's to say that sad eyed girls aren't really powerful women who rule worlds filled with precious creatures and eternal beauty?
And the bits and pieces I have thrown together? Well, they were the most interesting of the lot.
