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Journal - 13/10/01
(Written in black on gray for easier reading???)
Part 1:
What is life? An endless restructuring of beliefs and desires and physical states? Is it how we live, loving life or hating it? Or could it be our religion, belief in separate or whole gods? Or maybe it's what we do with our lives, jobs, friends, pets, family. I don't really know, and I'm fairly sure that no one on the outside of those hundred/thousand year-old monasteries does either.
Sometimes I wish that this would all end. I catch myself looking into my morning cup of water or milk wishing it was poisoned; surprised no one hates me enough to poison it for me yet. Looking of into the fog that covers the mountains and wishing I could just sink into its damp coldness; the worst kind of cold in my opinion, forever and ever. If I find I have accumulated a small scratch that dares to bleed I imagine that is bigger, that I've been horribly slashed and my lifeblood is pouring out of me; I wonder if I'd really care all that much. Red soul bitterly creeping across my skin and diving into the carpet, leaving a rusty stain for eternity, or until the carpet is ripped up for replacement.
Other days I find myself wondering about God; everyone does, of course, but that doesn't mean I can't, too. I wonder if there is only one God, or two, three, four, and on and on. I wonder if he is lonely, if he is a sadist (one theory I haven't been totally disproved of yet), if he really loves all life or is just here for the free show, if he really is a he, if he even knows what's going on down here, or if he's just letting everything go to hell so we actually have something we can try to accomplish by ourselves.
I question what my purpose is: to love, to live, to work until I get old to try and gain this stupid money thing, to find a job I like and work at it money or not, or just simply to die. It's a wonder our species has survived for so long, as pretty much everyone ends up doing something they hate, and everyone hates pretty much everything they do.
Part 2:
"God, I am so fucked up." Words that have passed my lips all too frequently, recently. I don't even know why. Perhaps to many deaths too quickly. A boy from my high school whom I didn't really know, a pet bird, my Ananda, and now my Grampa is dying; all within the space of one and a half years. Seems deaths always occur in bunches for me, when I was nine or ten it was Great-Grandmommy and Grandma.
I hate death.
Death steals those I love from me. It leaves me with small holes torn through my heart like invisible bullets. My tears dry on my face while I stare off into the distance and contemplate my own demise. I watch blood attempting to well from tiny slashes and revel is sharp pinpricks of pain in an attempt to brush death away from my soul for a short while. My friends shed tears because I cannot cope and hurt myself and consequently them through my pain and weakness.
I know that my pain is nothing. That every day thousand experience worse loss or themselves are cut down. This realization haunts me, and I banish it from my mind. I know that only a month ago many people lost entire families and relitaves in an accident that should never have happened. I would say that I feel their pain, but as I have not experianced such things myself I can only imagine a fleeting shadow of what they must have felt, what they are still suffering through.
I know that friends and family are more important than anything else to myself, so why do I hurt them? I try my best to be an angel, and I fall sixty feet deeper into sin every day. I hurt my friends by injuring myself, I hurt my family by being myself.
~Heather