26 May 2009

This week,

I feel as though so much of my time is being spent in silence. Carrie talks, talks, and Will talks, laughs over phone static, and I am a mute. I would like to be able to say that something has come from so much chance for reflection, but. I cannot write. I cannot think coherently enough to form sentences, lines, let alone paragraphs. Where did it all go? Contemplate estrogen as an addiction; for one week a month I feel wrong, am wrong, snapping, brooding, fists clenched against an internal boil. I feel like I used to feel everyday, when I churned, churned out pages by the hour. Substance and materiality inconsequential. What can I now build? Nothing but a legion of run-on sentences.

Three-fourths of the month,

The same wind has been blowing the same chime in the same way outside my window for the past fifteen years, but I like the taste of "used-to" and how distance is a lens. Estrogen as behavior modification... iamtootiredforthis.