[3:43 a.m.] : [2005-11-29]
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nothing was left now but the transparent truth which is the opposite of poetry. as previously mentioned i am to be leaving soon. not for good, but for a good enough chunk of time to make a difference. when i get back i don't know what will be here/there for me. all of this (diary, life, work) may be gone. as other men need to be alone before making their crucial decisions, Mersault, poisoned by solitude and alienation, needed to withdraw into freindship and confidence, to enjoy an apparent security before choosing his life. there is a smell on my shirt of warehouse and something else distinct (i think it's make up, some sort of fragrant base... i could be way off) that must of rubbed off during a good bye hug. There is no such thing as great suffering, great regret, great memory ...everything is forgotten, even a great love. That's what's sad about life, and also what's wonderful about it. driving back to my dads house tonight i drove by the old house, my childhood home. i don't think i've even driven by since i left texas the first time. it's up for sale again and the current owners have not bothered with much up keep, the grass is over grown and in shabby condition and the front flowerbeds are skeletons of forgotten plants that used to make a small hedge. i doubt there is going to be much interest on the market for it. while his imagination and vanity had given her too much importance, his pride had given her too little. He discovered the cruel paradox by which we always decieve ourselves twice about the people we love- first to their advantage, then to their disadvantage. i wish i didn't feel like i'm always leaving the good/important things/people in my life. i get something worth holding onto and i'm gone. i explained the pricipal of it earlier, just once i'd like to be able to stay when things feel right. that's it. that is my five year plan. Mersault, standing in the rain, still felt Marthe's cold nose and warm lips on his cheeks. |
