Isn't it strange how people always say it's "love" that makes them feel alive. It is the emotion of choice. Never sorrow, or anger, hatred, envy, embarrassment, regret, lust, or happiness...
Then I guess, under most people's standards, I'm not alive.
But, there is so much more to it than that. Living is all of those emotions, stitched together into a quilt of beauty, or ugliness. Time is just the thread.
Last night I awoke to the sound of a gunshot. It was worse than the one I have ever heard in my life. For some reason it was the most devastating sound I had ever heard. Was it an echo? Or had someone just then decided to end themselves? I don't know. I guess I'll never know, but I'm shaken beyond belief.
Shaken just as much with how I just finished a book which seems so much about myself, it's uncanny. And of course, it is all based around September 11th, an event at that point in my life, mattered nothing to me. The death of my dog was more cataclysmic. The death of my Dad, evenmoreso.
Maybe I just need to clean.
x.
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