{ la belle dame sans merci}

05/12/02

Frequently of late, I get this feeling; like the balance of some counter-weight shifts inside me, and as the pit of my stomach falls, tears rise to my eyes. It is a mixture of dread and misery and extreme boredom teetering on anguish. It comes sometimes when I'm in art class, painting whore's lips and retro stripes and listening to Dire Straits lyrics role endlessly past me. little gypsy moth she's all tied down. Damn it, I don't know the cure for this.

"I just want a country cottage and walks in the woods. And to write good novels."
"Isn't that what everyone wants?"
"No, everyone wants penthouse appartments and Porches and pretty children and movie star husbands."
"Same difference."

Of course it is. But all of my imaginary fan-fiction personas are dead (ticks off one escapade); I can't keep my mind on books (ticks off two); the balcony is too cold and anyway, my confession-tree has lost its leaves (three); someone has cleared up all of my soothing mess, thereby emptying my pacing-route of its familiarity (four); and I have run out of wool to knit (five). Effectively hemming myself into. Whatever this is. Four walls of endless schoolwork. Just... extreme boredom teetering on anguish, I suppose.