“Little Sister’s Not a Virgin Anymore”
What fear I? Where dare not look? It seemed like I was on the cusp of naming something (earlier) and now I am back where I always am. Complacent. A little too safe. Tired, achy, content to wait. Why am I this way? What is there? What do I know? Why should I fear?
I can list the rational, obvious, surface things. Even the irrational, subtle, surface things. BUT? Sigh. Begin there then I guess. ALF’s death. Separation from ALF. Breaking from “reality.” Madness, incarceration, death. And then… I don’t believe that I fear ridicule. I don’t believe that I fear failure. I don’t believe that I fear non-action either although I think that I SHOULD. There is more to this, more just on the edge there, more that I will not focus on. Frankie has gotten up and ran out of the room. Does that mean that the others are home? They’ve been gone less than 1 hour. I should check on him. See if he needs to go outside. (procrastination)
The dogs peed. It didn’t take very long and I am back now. Control? Is that what it all comes down to is a lack of control? Is that why I put off, put off, put off my marvelous control-tinged plans for self-improvement because if they don’t go as planned then that means that I have less control? Doing nothing is the ultimate form of control, but it’s NOT. It’s giving in to entropy.
And if you’re giving in, then you’re giving up, and in your sad machines you’ll forever stay, lost inside the dreams of teen machines. I want to say what I’m afraid to say. And I want to say what I am compelled to say. And I want to say what I thought Billy Corgan said but didn’t really. I want to be every moment I ever misunderstood. I’m not sure how to do that within the context of my novel. I’m not sure why it seems necessary to do it within the context of a sexual relationship. It’s just that I have this dark, driving, “thing” inside my head and I…
I am afraid of infinity. Because I am afraid that it does not exist. I am afraid of writing about a character who is young because… youth is wasted on the young. I think that I am afraid of being over-the-top, contrived, preachy. Why am I afraid of this? Why isn’t this something like bad grammar that I can go back and fix later? What is it that is so perfect that I have to be true, have to be right?
The answer is nothing. Right? Nothing is sacred. Nothing is shocking. I need to get back in the mindset of 1997. Ok, I am going to end this now and go and try to write a synopsis of what this story is so far (isn’t that all I do?). After I put the clothes through the dryer again.
