Someone Sitting In Greg's Brain Writing Cute Sentences

Here's where my head was at in October 2003:

For the last week things haven't seemed quite right. Depression? Or worse...a wierd, low intensity feeling of loss, without direction or motivation. The bar scene is no longer fun. Nor is the beer. Yet the beer beckons, promising a more primitive, hazed acceptance of this slime-pit of a life I've conjured. I look out the front window, leaves falling, grass wet-green, a cat prowling, a crow flapping workmanlike one tree to the next...and here? Here "The Wall" plays and plays. It seems all I have, and maybe all I ever had, is me.

I tell you love can be as dangerous as a bullet. The bullet at least strikes quickly. Love strikes without a sound, shattering the psyche, creeping in quietly surrounding its target with ill conceived needs to give, to share and to live, needs which cannot possibly be met alone. Illusion wrapped in delusion, reality buried before truly dead.

And the poor victim? By the time he realizes the illusional, one-dimensional, unrequited joys are a fraud...wounds hurt in places which cannot be found or cured. Having tasted fraud, reality will no longer do. The victim clings desperately to his destructive illusion, realizing, finally, his realities and fantasies are equally absurd, equally poisonous. Purpose devolves into mere survival, yet another ironic absurdity. And on and on.

Meanwhile I spin isolation into solitude, a prematurely opened heart into a brick wall then, in my rage, step back and hurl rocks at the brick. Satisfied the wall will stand, I vow not to be suckered, to sit painless but lifeless in the shelter of the wall.