Dear Diary,

December 11th 2008.

I don't know what to do with myself today, even more than yesterday and the day before. I don't know what to do with my emotions and I don't know how I would do it even if I knew what to do. It would seem that I don't know anything today.

It's the first full day of my Christmas holidays. Christmas is only two weeks away. A few days ago I wanted a new MacBook and I guess I still would like one but I don't really know.
Fall Out Boy's new album is coming out in four/five days, depending on where you are in the world. I pre-ordered it way back but I have the horrible dreading feeling that it won't find its way to my house on time.
My dad's coming home on Monday. He was having a little trouble getting out of Thailand because of the strikes at the airports but he's going to be home in time for Christmas. I think my step-sister's coming home too and I'm glad, I think, that the family will be together.

I feel spaced out, seperate from myself, but I wonder if the words I speak and type sound that way in your head. I suppose it helps to cut out all the "..."s and to capitalise all the right letters. Paragraphing helps too, I suppose, to make one sound a little more alert.

Fall Out Boy are playing in Cardiff on the 7th of March next year. If all goes well, I could interview them this time. I hope I have standing tickets, I don't really know. I have a horrid feeling that "General Admission" means seating. I hope to God (I'll become a Christian just for five seconds) that it doesn't. Though that won't matter if all goes well.

I want to broadcast my troubles to the world but then I'm scared. I wouldn't want to sound attention-seeking, I wouldn't want to be mocked or hated. I wouldn't want to be called a liar because my mind couldn't physically handle that right now.

A friend of mine who isn't a friend anymore told me, "It's not that great a tragedy. Now you can drink all you want at Summer's Christmas party." If I'd had the energy, I would've punched a hole through their head. They could be right, I guess, but it doesn't feel that way to me. It feels like the greatest tragedy there ever was. It feels, to me, like the world ought to stop turning and mourn with me. Is there a name for this kind of feeling? One of the seven stages of grief perhaps? At least I'm still a poet.
December 11th, 2008 at 03:48pm