puellarina's Diaryland Diary

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the dogs in my yard.

2004-03-13 - 8:55 p.m.

the Dogs In my Yard

Last night, I worked the over-night shift right on top of the swing shift I had just finished. The computers hummed. So did the flourescent lights. The stubbly blue-green carpet swirled and melted before my staring, bloodshot eyes. I was awake, but my body was pleading with me for something different. I was like cinderella, overdue for her place at the ball. A desperate preparation was going on. Softness battled with tension. My mind was using it's wimpy arsenal to battle the ocean tide. I couldn't have lasted much longer than I did.

It's nice to have something to count on. Humans are so frustrated at the imminance of change. We can do nothing about death. And yet we can count on it. It is always there for us. Either a cold blade at our necks, or a soft blanket that we wrap ourselves in. The desire to cheat, to be outside the law of nature is fundamental. But so is the desire for meaning and stability. I am ever at war in myself as to whether I want to live with the notion that my death is an enemy or a friend.

One of the kids asked me tonight, "do you know how long I'll live?"

"no" I said. "how long do you think you'll live?"

"I don't know." he said and wandered away. My tired zombie legs set off swiftly for the kitchen, but my mouth was still talking to the 9 year-old boy. It was saying : "I also don't know how long I'll live."

A sort of wonder spread through me, that if I can consider this topic I must be alive at this time. How rare it is to remember such a thing. And how useless it makes mouth was still talking to the 9 year-old boy. It was saying : "I also don't know how long I'll live."

A sort of wonder spread through me, that if I can consider this topic I must be alive at this time. How rare it is to remember such a thing. And how useless it makes ging. Fear.

The dogs in my yard.

Their perpetual cries drown out the memory of living.

I am tossing my paintbrush for them to fetch. Each time I recieve it again, my arm mechanically tosses it out. I've forgotten what else this thing is for. It keeps the dogs happy and at bay. Toss toss toss.

If I stop, I think I'll be eaten.

10:57 a.m. - 2004-05-11

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