from my journal on november 11, 1999-- the ramblings of my nineteen-year old mind:

somehow it seems that all my past transgressions follow me around like a shady mist, sprinkling their dewy wetness on everything i attempt, so all that is left is a damp waterlogged sheet that disintegrates with the next rain.

whispers slink snake-like through the room, carried by the overinflated egoes and shrunken self-image of the roomful of people.

through the air, lingering here and there near gossipers' perked ears just long enough for the lies to spread.

i cry out, but no-one hears me. the room has changed--it has become a prison.

---

Bigger, 1999 ---

Hiking up the dark, steep trail, all I can think of is that I wish I had quit smoking.


Somewhere, someone is whistling. It echoes through my head, reverberates until i can hear my memories answering, spreads and grows louder and louder until my thoughts are a cacophany that i can neither distinguish nor comprehend.


The air tastes tangy, like copper. It is that time just before dawn (dusk, i think they call it, or twilight, i can't remember which) when the light is diffused through the morning air, and fog descends on the mountaintop, trees, and people, like a shimmering veil.


I have never left that mountain. I have never forgotten that night, those people, the music. When i close my eyes, memories wash over me and take me back, however briefly, to those few hours when I first felt I belonged somewhere.

They say that fairies come out at night and dance in the woods. I have seen it.