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Sunday, January 23, 2005


Maybe it takes showing weakness to find your strength.

It's not like anyone thinks I'm tough, so I don't know why I cringe at the thought of being dependent on other people. But after talking openly and intimately with the woman I work with, who tells me broadly "I tell it like it is,"; after crying on the phone to my mother who I've found myself calling more than usual lately, the weight is lifting.

Tomorrow my soul may scream like a woman off Weight Watchers: "I just feel 10 pounds lighter!"

When I'm overly happy I think I must have finally turned into the airhead my hair color labels me. I wonder how could one could be happy and at the same time aware of the world that surrounds them.

I wrote a simple poem for my cluttered mind:

Maybe it’s the air I’m breathing
Maybe it’s this food I’m eating
Nothing seems quite right
Through my eyes anymore

Maybe I should try and sleep
But I’ve lost every morning this week
Maybe I should move my body
But every limb feels weak

Maybe I need a different location
Maybe I need a reservation
But then the bank might break
Even faster than my heart

So I call every number
And then hang up
I finish my dinner
To find food’s just not enough

And while my mascara eyes keep lying
They can’t keep me from crying
Still feel locked up in handcuffs
With no one searching for the key

Blackout hits the city
And while the morning light is pretty
The icy air that blows through the streets
It sinks deep into my skin

Maybe it’s the weather
That’s chained weights to my feet
Maybe it’s the air I’m breathing
Maybe it’s just me


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