December 6, 2000: Ice cream made of shaved mirrors

6:23am…my pen wants to bleed—to toss onto this page the raging hatred. What I really want is to write words so sickening; it would look as if my stomach has finally puked out this disgusting taste in my mouth. I can’t be evil with my words! I fear my spirituality will think it’s a curse and deliver it. 6:41am…I fear the new day unfolding. Within minutes, I’ll return to the path that makes me want to die. Each day is a test, I must remain strong—to fail now makes me a loser. To stop now means I’ve reached the end of the page. When I reach upward to the sky, I don’t paint the clouds. When the Cardinal sings I don’t steal his song. The forest is the only place that doesn’t sour the existence of boyhood dreams. 6:49am…my body sits empty—I’m to write something positive. Not until I paint a picture without tears. To stop this bleeding might be wise. To hold it back, keep it in, I won’t become blind. Allow me please, a place to write—never force me to be anyone but myself.