Mark's Pages

April 6, 2003:

And of course it's night, and all you can think of is her. Where is your beautiful true love right now? Across the bridge? In SoCal? Possessed by demons?

Burning up, especially at night.

"Girlfriend" a distant and abstract expression. Out of the question. Impossible to be loyal to anyone with her so alive inside.

Meanwhile the waitress here looks something like her. Henna hair, flicker of a crooked, shy smile. Something of her way of moving, of carrying herself. Why? Because all pretty women look something like her, and so you see her everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

What would you do if she walked into the room?

No, no, no. Could you imagine anything more deplorable? Anything more sick? More repulsive? Why do you always search for excuses for her?

Woke weeping in a strange bed in a strange city, after an evening in which my personal success seemed hollow. Missed her in my bones, missed her like you'd miss breathing. Futility, certainty that no possible happiness or contentment exists. Miserable.

How often? How long? Forever? Why not call her?

Because she doesn't exist.