A dry autumn wind rustles the leaves; I brood over my life, as if it were something apart from me. Here, some pages from my journal, from a melancholy time, from the season that reminds me seasons come and go:
I got it confused with people — being with them; wanting them to agree with me; wanting them to want me. I got love confused with all that.
This dark mood comes down like an angry hand on the table, like clothes thrown on the floor, like the half-remembered dream struggling up memory’s stairs and falling, struggling and falling.
