I can feel it in me. I don't want to sit here and debug code, I want to do things, I want to get stuff done and run and feel the air and smile and laugh and

celebrate life. Celebrate existence, and unity, move closer and draw myself forwards and backwards, feel the rising. Desire inside me, driving me, distracting me, whispering in my ear slowly to me. Cause me to fidget, cause me to be anxious, cause me to wonder

if I'll accomplish anything more today. It'll not be what I wanted to, what rationality demands I do. Thoughts moving through my minds' eye like clouds, playing with me, tormenting me, feeding on each other, when all I want is

calm. Must calm myself. Breathe in, breathe out, and impose control.

Spring is... coming.

(March 15, 2001)

I was standing in the parking lot glowing a little from having met some success with this play I was directing. Then I saw the tree.

I thought, almost said out loud, “Oh my god.” (well, I don’t have a god, but, for the sake of argument . . .) “I don’t believe it. It is already on its way. The spring.” I looked at the tree and noticed, with horror, that the branches were covered with buds. Buds! I thought that this winter would last forever. That it might put me to sleep. But OH NO! no chance of that! Spring is hobbling in and soon everything will be bursting with life. When it comes I’ll just stare at it all in disbelief: the tulips, the bare legs and arms, the grass, the skin. Please! Give me snow and icy blue-black nights, give me slender bare trees, like bones, not spring! Anything but that! This is torture.

I guess it’s an odd way to look at it. Unhealthy. Who said that “April is the cruelest month” ? I never understood that phrase, but now, now it makes too much sense. I’ve grown so old so quickly. When the spring comes I won’t awaken with the the daffodils, I won’t come pushing out of the snow like a crocuses. I’ll have to admit that I am past the stage of growing. Growing older already. Withering? Well, that’s a bit harsh. I’m only 21. 21 winters and only now I’m learning. This is the first year that I have not welcomed spring. When winter started I thought I would. But I learned to love the cold and I can’t go back. Take me to one of the poles of the earth! Then I’d have nothing to complain about anymore.

What a poor life. Like watery soup.

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