When you hear some people speak, it puts you on the verge of tears and thinking of your mother or your grandchildren or something. I wish I could do that, but I can’t. Most of the time I can’t even write poems, much less speak in them.
I spent the morning trying to find my past, but I didn’t find it. There were some old discs with photo scans that once existed; I looked for those, but I didn’t find them. There were a couple of notebooks around that I used to scribble in. I looked for those, but I didn’t find them either. I read some old email from a few years ago and some reasons I’ve jotted down for hating ex girlfriends (usually written just after they’ve dumped me). I keep those files on hand in case I should ever be tempted to forgive any of them someday.
For a few minutes, I was making a mental list of hats I’ve owned. My memory of my own hat buys goes back to the baseball field in the summertime on the west side. I wasn’t a fan of baseball or anything, but once, for a week, I had a red batter’s hat. I think it was a batter’s hat, anyway. It was hard and covered one ear.
November 26th, 1999 — “I’m sure that the dreams will go on for a very long time. But it’s too late now. It’s all over. My mind just doesn’t know how to approach it, so it comes in brief flashes of consciousness. It’s going to be a long road back to Salt Lake City. It’s going to be a long road back.”
July 24th, 2002 — “Above all, I need to remember: you can’t cling to things. Just let them be what they are, remember them as they were, live in the moment, and try to be happy that way. I am somewhere in New Mexico right now. The journey has gone on forever already.”
February 10th, 2004 — “I don’t know what the future will bring. It seems oddly open… Reality is a strange place. I don’t know if this is the end to this diary or not. If this is an end, let me assure whoever is reading: I lived a reasonably interesting and full life with some deliriously happy moments and some horrible ones that seemed as though they’d swallow me up. In the end, I died like everyone else — leaving only a few little things behind me.”
It’s that sad sense of inevitability, of the winding down of the things you love… it gets you in the stomach and you have a hard time breathing, after. I’ve hated being alive as long as I can remember.