tags: tomorrow is another day

Deep, depressing thoughts at 4:30 a.m.

2002

May

2002 May 27

Time runs out.

The thing that I’ve been mulling over is the fact that there have been so many Septembers in the past where I’ve been ever hopeful, with the intent of making a change in my life. And while I know it would be hard to convince many of you, there have been times that I’ve actually acted upon this impulse, only to be rebuffed, or even worse, only to be faced with puzzled indifference.

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November

2006 Nov 16

sick but less twisted than usual

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Enfold me
I am small
I’m needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

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2007

January

2007 Jan 3

insomnia continues

So I need to go to sleep now if I want to have any hope of waking up in time for work tomorrow. I mean, I really shouldn’t bitch or moan, considering that I had both Monday and Tuesday off. I’m basically pretty much done with the week, really, and I get the weekend off.

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2008

June

2008 Jun 11

the stark glare of dawn

I need to count the number of times I've used the phrase "Tomorrow is another day." I keep hoping that each day will bring some magic change inside me, that somehow I'll manage to snap out of it, and somehow all the things broken inside my soul will have mended themselves.

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November

2008 Nov 12

milestones

What are the little worries of our lives, against the backdrop of tumultuous history?

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2010

June

2010 Jun 24

exhausted

I'm going to see how feasible it is to write a blog post on an iPad with my contacts off. The screen is probably only about three inches from the tip of my nose, and I have to do it with only one eye open because there's such a big difference in the power of my left eye versus the right.

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2011

March

2011 Mar 6

if you don't have much soul left and you know it, you still got soul

A few weeks of headaches and listlessness, of palpitations and sleeplessness, of such unshakeable weariness
the painkillers and the antibiotics, the receptor blockers and the immune modulators
make you a little less achy, and little less sore, and the nights aren't as fraught
with tossing and turning, and the fluttery, nervous twirling in the pit of your gut
and that basic fear of worrying whether you even know what you're doing anymore
if the next morning will bring some horrific disaster that everyone is counting on you to fix
and you'll just end up standing there uselessly, hands trembling and nerveless
and the roar of triumphant chaos finally sweeps you away from the sandy shores
drowning you in the dark depths of that trackless sea of despair

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