February 26, 2002
Wallowing in unchanged motor oil

It’s a weird day… my gut instinct is screaming in a foreign language. My silence is nothing, but a mental documentation or planned strategy of how your words will soon be freed leading straight back in your direction. My mistakes are no different than other path makers—if this serves as a problem, we need to work it out, not fire invisible words of destruction. Hatred lives beneath my skin—a hatred of self and everything inner. I’ve thought of ways to control it, possibly hide it… forgetting doesn’t work! I know how I got here—I know what it’s made of. To return means more pain… pain becomes hatred, hatred is what I would love to forgive, but to which day do I give the blessed feeling toward? I create circles which are never complete.