This was my last entry before the attacks happened just hours later. Funny how the things I was sweating about in here (girl drama: trying to get over one by forcing myself to like a different one) all of a sudden didn’t matter at all just a short time later. I was 26 years old here.
“I thumb through the 100 blank pages of a brand new black-n-white spotted notebook, wondering how I’ll fill it all. Do dreams and infatuations really go that far before it all gets redundant? Is this it? Is this the one that’ll break through? There’s still soul in my screams; devotion in that sacred old notion.
Rereading everything I’ve written in the last two years sounds like a broken record: La, la, la: Drinking, pills, Justine, flying, don’t know where we stand, drinking too much, too many pills, flying, Justine, layovers, what is she thinking?, Justine, bars, pubs, lounges, Justine, flying, Valium, Vicodin, Soma, Xanax, Justine, Hydrocodone, Percocet, K, dreams of plane crashes, Justine, sex, Justine, Justine, and more Justine. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
Earthquakes shake thoughts from my cluttered head down to dusty pages. A useless summer fades to deep cool autumn. I missed the trees shed snowy buds in classic beat songs, print, and verse until the last blast of Reading rite, savior strokes, and on!air!library gave me hope. I just needed something new to believe in, a voice from my static struggle and soma celebration. Dig this new sound. Remember the old thrills. Things are starting to happen and I have butterflies in my stomach again.
I lay on the hotel bed with my head resting on the small of your back as you watch syndicated American reruns. I rub my hand lightly up and down your newly shaved leg over and over and remember the noises you make and how your skin gets moist from rolling around in my bed and how that’ll never happen again. It happens in slow motion over and over again in daydreams and in those warm semi-conscious, drifting-to-sleep moments when I smile and sigh and pull the covers up closer to my face and forget about everything else and turn into a child again.”
Yeah, I’m not sure exactly what I was talking about there, but I remember how I felt. I felt a lot like it sounded- very scattered and confusing but at least I knew I was feeling something, I just didn’t know what to do with it. I don’t seem to feel things like that anymore. In some ways I wish more than anything that I could go back to that time when everything was possible and the future was wide open. Then again, in other ways, there isn’t enough money in the world.