Sent: 9/29/2003 12:01 PM
SOC (Stream of Consciousness) - 9/25/03
This life. This everything. What does it mean? And what do we owe? Do we owe anything? And what shall we give? Questions. Thoughts. My own kind of music on the keypad of my computer ringing sweetly and consistently across the silence of the night. Aside the fan blowing air from the window. Humid air. But cool. Cool air traces round my face and brow and I wonder how. How. How is it.
I called Lance and wished him a happy birthday a day too late. Was I too late? Was he there to receive it. Ah, time. It is a funny parent. One that catches you off guard, as it should be.
Help me Lord. Help me. For lately, I have felt so weary, that I can hardly raise my head from the pillow to awaken to the day. The day seems so daunting with all that is expected of me. What? Is it only what I expect from me? I expect much more. Help me. Please. In Jesus Christ's Name I pray!
And I find the most intellectual and spiritual conversation of the night at Eden Bar. I talked with people I just met there. About God. About Christ. How strange. And yet, I am so non-judgmental, I must allow everyone his or her own journey towards God. That is a witness. Is it? I'm so unsure. Oh God, am I doing wrong? Please help me. If I am not being a good witness in Your name, then help me. Please!
Follow My path!
I feel as if I must write some sort of journal entry, as I haven't in such a long time. Tonight is the night that I was supposed to read "Sick of it" at the Bowery Poetry Club, but I have realized that I have already read the poem I should there, "Racial Slurs". Every time I keep mentioning that I'm reading a poem, I say, "Raaa - I mean 'Sick of it'." Where is my next destination Dear Lord? What is next? I feel like reading again is barking up the same tree that I have before. Perhaps that's my reason for apprehension?
I'm at a loss. I don't know. There are so many doubts swimming in here that I wonder if that manuscript is even the one that needs to be published. I find myself wanting to write something more and better. Why can't I be happy with it being what it is? Perhaps because I don't believe that humanity will forgive me for it either? Either. So I am so critical of myself? I am. Perfection. Oh God, release me from this mistake. You gave me Christ. Why do I still strive to be Him. Shan't I be me? Me with Him as my ideal. Striving but never obtaining. Be me. Be me. Oh I'm afraid of that. I'm afraid that being me would be nothing less than being a complete failure. I feel like such a failure. Is it true? I don't feel so, and yet, there are times when I wonder. And that causes the feeling. The feeling of, what if? Where am I God? Where I am?
Enough. Enough. Oh God. Fill me. Fill me. In Jesus Christ's Name. Fill me.
The Hours definitely affected me. The curiosity of Virgina Woolf struck me. And it has me wondering about her and her life, for I feel like I might relate. I don't know, but there is something that I see in her that I see in me. Perhaps. Perhaps. Why am I writing perhaps so much lately. It's because I'm acknowledging that I don't know. And Perhaps that is exactly what needs to be. I need to feel.
