Murder Music

The forces that animate my body are so irritable during this slice of night, after all the network TV worth watching has gone off and everyone I can talk to is asleep. It's not that I can't sleep. I just can't stop. The little man in the engine room keeps shoveling the coal in. I just took 3mg of melatonin, near guaranteed to make even someone my size fall out. Its effects are apparent, but I can't keep myself from typing, reading, watching the odd advertisement for cheap auto loans and colon flushes. Some directive from my mesolimbic system, the deep well of desire, means I can't stop until I collapse.

My noisy computer puts out a whine that no doubt will contribute to hearing loss someday. The Faculty plays on the TV adjacent to my monitor. I'm spending an inordinate amount of energy scrying whether I'm more attracted to Josh Hartnett or Jordana Brewster. The exanimate separation that marks my lifelong tenancy in the twilight hours is powerful, and it bleeds into the rest of my days. On a day off, I can go from waking to sleeping without talking to another human. It feels right, but in that messed-up way that beating, ravaging, destroying someone feels right. It's justified by the same apparatus which reasons a journal as a working substitute for a shrink.

I want love, but I don't need romance. I want someone to play videogames with, to sit on the couch and burp with, to enjoy the dismal in-between moments that are building up, unused, in my timeline. The wonderful tactile motions of my body pressed against another keep flitting through my mind, the savory tang of lust ever on my taste buds. I don't know how to get to a point where I feel capable of dating someone else, leaving the question of my own desirability unanswered without being asked. I suppose I always held out for the day when I found someone broken in the same way that I am, and questions of gender, sex, and attraction would be thrown out the window, in favor of the knowledge that our identical fears of being alone would no longer have merit.

I'm not a good writer, but I wish I could speak as well as I do write. Caught in the moment, all of my well-prepared phrases and beats fail me, and I'm just so often stuck. I'm done tonight. There's nothing else to do.

For the past two months, I've been attempting to broaden my vocabulary. Every time I see a word I don't know or fully comprehend, I look it up online. It's what I did when I was a kid, and its result then, as now, was that I learned a whole lot of new words. I finally know how to abseil and abjure. I grasp (fugaciously) the distinction between the noumenal and phenomenal. Yay, words.

To my surprise, my evolving ability to construct a lethally precise sentence has left me, as always, unable to express my real feelings. The emotions that form my words leave them without their spirit. I write with an increasingly studied structure, but to no benefit. This diary away from the rest of the world is where I can write in private, get over the ugly adolescence of style without ridicule. That doesn't work, does it? I don't know if I just need someone to tell me my writing is shit, or keep writing until I find a louder voice and then have someone tell me my writing is shit. Like, I want to be this cool artist person who writes and makes music and games and stuff on the side and somehow finds a way to pay the rent, too. But that's just a variation of the dream I had due to the exhaust leak in my '89 Accord, a triumphant don't-need-to-take-this-shit reverie that made missing first period soooo worth it.

I'm reading this kind of weird manga about a queer-les-trans love quadrilateral. It's very much a standard romantic serial, but there's something weird, off - even un-Japanese - about it. My heart understands it and resonates with it, and I want to write about the feeling I have while reading it. Forlorn recognition. I don't know. I'm crying now. Maybe that's enough.