Becoming Vague
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JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
My world is becoming vague.
It's more like the sound of rain, or the feeling of the wind. Something you can't see, you can't know for sure that it's there, but you also can't prove that it's not.
The drinking binge has seemed to pass as quickly as it came. Perhaps it's the lack of money, the lack of purpose, the lack of enjoyment... And yet, that theory can be applied to everything else in my life as well.
I've lost the nned to impress anybody, and all that remains is my face. I still have not lost that... From the chin up I still attempt to keep appearances. The lips still have lip gloss. It's gone beyond preventing chapping; chapping seems not to matter anymore. The cheeks still have blush, natural looking and healthy. A blind, perhaps. The day I stop wearing blush will probably be the day I stop eating, drinking. Then the eye liner-two colors, brown and black, gives the eyes shadow and a look of mystery. Even makes it look like I have more eye lashes than I do. Mascara, naturally. And my eye brows, keep them up, maintain them. I still wash and brush my hair every day.
I haven't been able to answer why yet. Why do I keep doing these things, these few simple steps, the few strings that seem to hold me from the edge of sanity? It makes me look normal, like everyone else, when I've ceased being like everyone else ages ago.
And why do I constantly nap? I look in the mirror, at my pretty made-up face, and seconds later it's all being smeared on my pillow, and my hair is being matted. Why do I even bother, when I know I'm going to mess it all up in a matter of minutes? Or why do I sleep, when I've made myself look so normal and healthy? That's harder to answer.
I haven't done my laundry in I don't know how long. I'm in my last pair of clean pants, near the last pair of clean underwear, and am covering my mismatching shirt with a sweatshirt. One more clean pair of socks lays in my drawer, with the little poodles sewn on. It's no wonder I haven't worn them yet. I'll probably shave my legs tomorrow and move on to the skirts, and flip flops. It's funny that I will go out of my way to shave my legs and risk cutting them because of my intensely sharp new razor head, when I won't pull the dollar of quarters out and walk down two floors to wash all of my clothes, so that I don't have to shave my legs, don't have to cut them, don't have to wear fussy skirts and flipflops and stay in the comfort of sweatshirts, jeans, and socks. It's funny that I still manage to shower every day.
Though I know the shower is the one event that keeps me from laying in bed all day.
What is my strange inability to get through a day awake? Why is it that as soon as I sit, pick up a book, turn on the TV, get out my homework, that it's only moments before my eyes close and I'm sleeping yet again? I sleep well at night. I usually get at least seven hours of sleep. Some nights it's five, most nights it's nine.
Why can't I get out of bed even if I've slept eleven hours? And why can't I stay out of bed for the rest of the day? Why these incessant naps?
Without the need to impress anyone, I've removed pretty much every aspect of my life. Eating isn't about enjoyment, it's about nourishment. I don't go downstairs every day at 4:40 so that I can have some friends to eat dinner with. I would eat dinner alone if I had to. I would skip dinner, actually. But there's some drive towards nourishment. One of the few remaining drives I seem to have left.
Which brings me back to the issue of sleep yet again. I've been having dreams, dreams mad enough to make any person want to stay awake all the time. Dreams where people are trying to kill me. Last night it was my boyfriend. I don't know who he was. He had a middle eighteenth century look about his face. I didn't see any features, just the hair. He seemed rather old. But how could I tell? It was also his friends. Strange, I didn't see any of them. One, though, had the name of Dan Kaschel!! Now that is weird, isn't it?
I don't think it's saying I have an obsession with JoeUser. My dreams seem to pick up from every aspect of my life... In fact, I discussed Sartre with someone in my dream last night, too. And Rachel was there.
All of the events seem to blur together so that all I can remember is a room walled with blue, three fish in a tank--two blue and one yellow and green, and strange long wooden poles sticking out of a lake. And people trying to kill me. It was inevitable. I had to leave Rachel's, and I knew I was going to be killed.
And still I cannot seem to quit sleeping.
Everything is becoming vague. Even my sanity is... If there is any left.
~Anne
It's more like the sound of rain, or the feeling of the wind. Something you can't see, you can't know for sure that it's there, but you also can't prove that it's not.
The drinking binge has seemed to pass as quickly as it came. Perhaps it's the lack of money, the lack of purpose, the lack of enjoyment... And yet, that theory can be applied to everything else in my life as well.
I've lost the nned to impress anybody, and all that remains is my face. I still have not lost that... From the chin up I still attempt to keep appearances. The lips still have lip gloss. It's gone beyond preventing chapping; chapping seems not to matter anymore. The cheeks still have blush, natural looking and healthy. A blind, perhaps. The day I stop wearing blush will probably be the day I stop eating, drinking. Then the eye liner-two colors, brown and black, gives the eyes shadow and a look of mystery. Even makes it look like I have more eye lashes than I do. Mascara, naturally. And my eye brows, keep them up, maintain them. I still wash and brush my hair every day.
I haven't been able to answer why yet. Why do I keep doing these things, these few simple steps, the few strings that seem to hold me from the edge of sanity? It makes me look normal, like everyone else, when I've ceased being like everyone else ages ago.
And why do I constantly nap? I look in the mirror, at my pretty made-up face, and seconds later it's all being smeared on my pillow, and my hair is being matted. Why do I even bother, when I know I'm going to mess it all up in a matter of minutes? Or why do I sleep, when I've made myself look so normal and healthy? That's harder to answer.
I haven't done my laundry in I don't know how long. I'm in my last pair of clean pants, near the last pair of clean underwear, and am covering my mismatching shirt with a sweatshirt. One more clean pair of socks lays in my drawer, with the little poodles sewn on. It's no wonder I haven't worn them yet. I'll probably shave my legs tomorrow and move on to the skirts, and flip flops. It's funny that I will go out of my way to shave my legs and risk cutting them because of my intensely sharp new razor head, when I won't pull the dollar of quarters out and walk down two floors to wash all of my clothes, so that I don't have to shave my legs, don't have to cut them, don't have to wear fussy skirts and flipflops and stay in the comfort of sweatshirts, jeans, and socks. It's funny that I still manage to shower every day.
Though I know the shower is the one event that keeps me from laying in bed all day.
What is my strange inability to get through a day awake? Why is it that as soon as I sit, pick up a book, turn on the TV, get out my homework, that it's only moments before my eyes close and I'm sleeping yet again? I sleep well at night. I usually get at least seven hours of sleep. Some nights it's five, most nights it's nine.
Why can't I get out of bed even if I've slept eleven hours? And why can't I stay out of bed for the rest of the day? Why these incessant naps?
Without the need to impress anyone, I've removed pretty much every aspect of my life. Eating isn't about enjoyment, it's about nourishment. I don't go downstairs every day at 4:40 so that I can have some friends to eat dinner with. I would eat dinner alone if I had to. I would skip dinner, actually. But there's some drive towards nourishment. One of the few remaining drives I seem to have left.
Which brings me back to the issue of sleep yet again. I've been having dreams, dreams mad enough to make any person want to stay awake all the time. Dreams where people are trying to kill me. Last night it was my boyfriend. I don't know who he was. He had a middle eighteenth century look about his face. I didn't see any features, just the hair. He seemed rather old. But how could I tell? It was also his friends. Strange, I didn't see any of them. One, though, had the name of Dan Kaschel!! Now that is weird, isn't it?
I don't think it's saying I have an obsession with JoeUser. My dreams seem to pick up from every aspect of my life... In fact, I discussed Sartre with someone in my dream last night, too. And Rachel was there.
All of the events seem to blur together so that all I can remember is a room walled with blue, three fish in a tank--two blue and one yellow and green, and strange long wooden poles sticking out of a lake. And people trying to kill me. It was inevitable. I had to leave Rachel's, and I knew I was going to be killed.
And still I cannot seem to quit sleeping.
Everything is becoming vague. Even my sanity is... If there is any left.
~Anne
