All brilliance is fickle and fleeting...apparently.

There are cracks in my skin. They chase each other along the heel of my foot.

I want to say it's where i stow something secretly beautiful, there in the crevices that save their grace for asphalt. I won't.

It's hard to find a rhythm now to these posts of mine because i've occasionally written them in the grips of a MOoD and here, later, I find a struggle between pretenses rather than safety within any one. I'm done explaining and i'm done sitting for minutes at a time searching for the most correct of words. This is not what i came here for.

Recall you previous posts? If there are an abundance of words rooted in "beauty", they doth speak of my obssession. I'd like to fully write it down here (or anywhere for that matter, don't you be gettin' premature on me) at some point because the definition haunts me with all of the vague nothings it seems to represent. The nothings that are worth dying for, and other things too. Well, i'm bound to be proven something eventually.

By the way, when a suicidal person tells you that she loves you so much that she'd willingly die for you, (say now, what made me think of this?) maybe you should ask her if it's you she lives for. It'd be swell to hear it without the sting of reprimand.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/29/04)

I've wanted to leave since I got here.

There are ways to be discovered for fighting the emptiness that is working in retail. Here is one:

"and who knows the voluptuous delight of what is yet to come?" -Nietzche

This is written on a piece of receipt tape and crumpled up into a ball so that i can feel it in my pocket throughout the day. I've found that if you bring a beauty, indisputable in your mind, into solid form and let it graze your skin occasionally, you can retain a small portion of the joy that is the only sane reaction we have any hope left for.

There's nothing else to say right now. Actually this is a fallacy, not only are there things to say (always), but even I have things to say. I restrain myself now though, for even while i speak of sensible joy, it is anger that continues to fill my crevices. And that lingering emptiness that struggles perpetually towards sorrow. So I'm done.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/24/04)

There's something about them Disheveled...

I don't like the idea of waiting. It's alright to sit and be still until something you've been expecting occurs, this is not of which i speak. I don't like the idea of waiting for life. I don't like this perpetual anticipation of a meaningful life to suddenly show up...lingering. It's a hideous way. That's all.

And the unfinished. And the disparate recurrence in me of relieved dissatisfaction. And the scattered pieces that must remain for they never did belong to one another.

There are countless things to be made better and an equal number of those things that are good and (still) await my admiration or at least my acknowledgement. Nevertheless my time. I know there are things that deserve my attention. But here i am too small for any of me to be enough. Maybe the night is always too old to escape.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/21/04)

"Every time I have time to think I think of this."

My head doesn't contain sane thoughts. Maybe 'sane' isn't an accurate term. My thought process is not linear so much as rhythmic (as if the two were opposing concepts) so that there is constantly music taking up my attention. Which is good.

I learned today that my favorite defense mechanism of choice, namely the repression of any outward show of emotion, initiates memory loss. I did not know this. Now that i do and with the admittance of memory loss being my greatest fear if only because it is so present in my life, it seems i should quit it. I'll get back to you (me) on that one.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/18/04)

(And the quote is Ani Difranco. *Cloud Blood*)

An abundant supply of self-delusion may not be better than nothing.

I couldn't tell you why I'm sitting here glaring at the screen as if there's anything to say. Something about the state I'm in has the word 'empty' pervading my thoughts. But I'm still here.

I have to go close my eyes now.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/17/04)

Except that when time finally waits for me i suppose i'll die.

So many things are bizarre. Everything. It's the strangest sensation to look around me at all the things i've always known so well and remain unable to convince myself that they're not absurd. I mean, where's my freakin' frame of reference? How can i be so sure that everything's ridiculous when this be the only thing i've ever known as real? Sigh.

And i know why i'm writing this. We're so beautiful.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/16/04)

Impulsive purchasing of vintage skirts will keep one standing.

I can't claim to be on top of the standard i set for myself at the moment in terms of my awareness. I'm tired.

I can say that i'm present just enough to concern myself with the fact that this is only my second entry here and i ought to be giving an accurate impression. I don't think that i am. Oh, oh, it's cuz i'm so tired. So it's okay. I forgive you.

My hands might be shaking a li'l bit, i'm not entirely positive. I suppose this may be the result of my eyes twitching or something. I'm not sure what quip would go well with this last. Whatever, the truth be on my side, Child.

My feet hurt from sprinting for twenty minutes on a treadmill last night barefoot. It was well worth it: the pain is swell. I'm sure it proves something, enfolds some truth. Maybe it's just that it proves that there's such thing as truth. I have no idea what i'm talking about. (No, unfortunately i can't use my borderline insomnia as an excuse as this be a perpetual state.)


Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/14/04)

Nope, not a fan of money. I'm a bad capitalist.

I'm sitting here, up at 1:38am (which is not unusual for me but tonight i've a sorry excuse as to why), doing things like creating crazy journal accounts randomly, and waiting for my damn paycheck to transfer automatically to my damn bank account so that i can transfer some damn money to quit being overdrawn (damnit). Unfortunately i've been LIED TO and it's still not there an hour and a half after it was supposed to be. Geez, Louise.

I'm pretty tired. (Every time i say that i think of "Forrest Gump." It is good. And it means that movie is in the back of my mind at all times.) I think i should stop typing right now and just go to bed. I'm waking up in less than three hours so I know i should go.

I've been working the graveyard shift at my work once a week lately. We unload the truck and since i work in a framing retail shop all of our merchandise is heavy, and we're always getting way too much of it. This here be the relevance: my hands are changing. They look strong now, an odd mixture with their relatively small size; my veins have become prominent. I can't stop looking at them as i type.

Hands to me are a fascination. I shake other people's hands for kicks. (Though i'm usually repentant at the occasional disconcerted expression, i've yet to change my ways.) I believe that the most beautiful part of the human body is the crevice the thumb bone creates when flexed. (It's prettier done than said.) I stare at them in all of their gesticulating wonder when animated people talk and must remind myself to make eye contact. They, to me, are a distraction. But since i couldn't tell you just what from, i see no reason to remedy the situation. I think the whole thing is pretty swell anyway.

I suppose i will fall down somewhere now, close my eyes and call it sleep.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/13/04)