A dream that I see, don't kill it. It's free.
2005-05-05 @ 1:22 a.m.

I met a girl tonight at the ship, named Mia. She was embarassingly drunk. She knew me because I knew you and we were only there for a quick beer before Yarko and she went home to fuck. Once. Just once. And then, he said, they would probably never be alone together again. Not even for coffee, I said? Not even for coffee, he said. People like Yarko frighten me. Frighten me because (elypses); so beautiful, so talented, so brilliant. With two degrees and magic fingers, beautiful photography and that socially charming, unconsciouse lisp - the prowess of his ego. His inate sexuality and insincere flirtations make Yarko the prime candidate for rebel-boyfriend number one. He is ever passionate and ever destructive and it scares me how willing I am to love him and how aware I am of my continuing purposefullness in distance. It creates in me an awareness of a permanent damage. I am so afraid of trust. Yarko puts me in no danger as I am uninterested in the fleeting romance that I was once so drawn to. But once upon a time. In myself, in my colleagues, in my social existence I am completely unwilling to commit to an intentional emotional promiscuity. I miss my malingering days of open heart, open world, open socialite, social butterfly. I keep trying to make excuses, like that my friends are somewhere way behinde me and I am alone in my progress. How arrogant. How true, and yet how insincere. I am truthfully untouched by my own accomplishments. I am truthfully forever touched by you. You somewhere in the distance showing your face now and again in conversations haphazardly. You there with your curly hair and your now, hazy face. Sometimes I don't even really remember what you look like. And then there are - what? What are there really? Not emotions. Not even really something tangible. In fact, whatever it is, it's quite untangible. It's like a light residue that sits - coffee pot film all over my brain. You are all these reasons to second guess everything. Last week Jessica and I had coffee and she made a list of all the times you shit on my head and made me eat my words without letting me figure out if I even meant the things that I was saying. There it is dad - there's the sentance I've been looking for - there's everything you were trying to protect me from. Sometimes you are the barrier between me then and me now and I wonder, I second guess, if I can know anything without that connection. Do I hate you? Am I capable of hate? Have you made me capable of hate? Are you winning, being here, in this journal entry? Or am I winning because I am finally beyond my pride, in a place where I am not crying, I am not breaking, and yet I am analyzing. I want to make a science of myself and disprove my inept faculties. I am such a fucking complicated science.

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