OCTOBER 14, 2004 (THURSDAY)
I'm trying to be happy. I really am.
Some days I succeed. Some days it's all I can do to hang on.
If only it's that easy - the push of a button.
I just can't feel anymore. I get only faint sensory impressions: the dove wing's touch of fingers on my shoulder, jaundice yellow lighting of restaurants, tasteless gravy, thick chocolate on a plastic spoon. They are only momentary - things I hold on to in a vain attempt to prevent slippage. It's not even about him anymore - it has moved beyond him, beyond the fiction of the "us" that I created. I am happy to just be with him nowadays: talking, teasing, holding hands. It never means anything than the moment itself, I know that now. I still love him. I'm glad that he's still around.
But this is beyond him already.
I wrote this earlier in my red notebook: If I were to write a novel, I wonder how much of it would be based on my life, and how much of it would be based on my approximation of life. Fictional characters are lucky in that sense - they have an ending that can be predicted in a certain number of pages. We sorry human beings plod on day after day, not sure if we are approaching the climax of our story or merely laying down the foundations of a fabulous tale.
And here's another scribble: It is always painful to read about hopes that are always unfulfilled. The line between fact and fiction is getting thinner every waking moment.
Someone sent me a text message earlier: "Simply the thing I am shall make me live." (Shakespeare) Whether it was meant as a message of hope or simply survival, I don't know. I appreciate the intention behind it, though. He always knew what to say at the right moment.
(I'm so sorry I'm difficult to live with.)
(I'm glad he's happy, though. It's so easy to smile around him nowadays.)
I feel as though I'm waiting for something.
The universe tells me to be patient.