2001-05-28 - 8:01 p.m. - brevis7

Words. Music. I'll make them mine yet. Shape them to my will, make them show others what I see. Art? I don't have the hands... and pictoral representation... what is it to me? I will leave it to others, so that they can depict grander visions... for now, leave me with my Muses. Words are malleable, so too melodies: through endless reshaping to suit that which I see without seeing I shall satisfy my wants for control and for perfection.

But what of the rest?

I wish to cover with massive obsidian temples my equally large insecurities, the vast reserve I have stored not in bullion but in chickenshittedness. Maybe then I won't run from myself, from others. Maybe my solution is no solution. We'll see.

How arrogant of me to think that I can build my own redemption, word by word and note by note. Will those harden into obsidian? The idea's keeping me alive.

Ah, God: what is welling up within me, these unfamiliar loathings longings cravings? It... a torrent of water crashing out of some hidden outlet in the center of my too-small frame. And yet: the feelings are not wholly unfamiliar, they've been there... just they have been reduced, concentrated, intensified beyond my imagination... mood swings, pah...

Dinner calls. I will be back.

Oh yes. My piano teacher seems to be doing fine, she's out of the hospital and at home. I can breathe a bit more easily now.

J (:>