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Friday, March 11, 2005

the woman has no soul!

Lock me up and sign me into the Freak Show. I just want to be me.

Tonight over dinner-I cooked up chicken in wine sauce with rice, salad, and cooked cinnamon pears-we talked about not feeling. Not missing people. Moments where you wonder where your heart is.

In a state of confusion I once I wrote in a poem 'Sometimes I feel robotic/The woman without a soul'. Finding myself relating only too well with Albert Camus' The Outsider. The man lives a normal life, has friends, dates beautiful women, and all the while has no real emotion.

It's funny, considering I am an emotional person. I write poetry for fucks sake. But sometimes I have a hard time caring about the things I believe I should.

I worry when I don't miss people enough. When creature comforts hold no comfort at all. When I seek the warmth in companionship only to find myself getting chills.

Is it wrong to find so much in your friendship with yourself? It's just I'm still getting to know me. And when I'm on my own and boundary free I feel so incredibly alive. There is no box to put me in. There is no expectations. But slowly these boundaries are becoming invisible even around others.

The world is too big to put up a fence and stay in your back yard.

I don't ever want to limit myself. Worry what people think of me. Every year I grow older I realize how little it matters.

In the morning I'm expecting a phone call from a prospective family in Paris that I will nanny for. They are very French, and I am going to try to represent myself as honestly as possible while grasping for French words so early in the day.

Let me leave you with this:
'THE PRICE OF BEING ONESELF IS
SO HIGH AND INVOLVES SO MUCH
RUTHLESSNESS TOWARDS OTHERS
(OR WHAT LOOKS LIKE RUTHLESSNESS
IN OUR DUTY-BOUND CULTURE)
THAT VERY FEW PEOPLE CAN
AFFORD IT. MOST PEOPLE
SWALLOW THE UNACCEPTABLE
BECAUSE IT MAKES LIFE SO MUCH
EASIER.' -Mary Sarton

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