23 January 2003 - 9:42 pm
while the Inner Martyr sleeps.

piano crawling into my ears. michael nyman's 'impromptu for 12 fingers.'

the light's on, again, for a little while, until people come into the room, or until i wake up tomorrow and have to go to work at nine, or until i have to see people. for now i can subsist on the knowledge that i have a formed plan of action, that i know what i have to do, and the fact that i might eventually do it.

the longer and longer that i don't do it is when the anxiety sets in. should eat something tonight. missed dinner because i slept through it - again - and my stomach is literally muttering at me. i can't gain weight if i don't eat, and i'm unhealthily underweight, i guess. "ever see ferris bueller's day off?" matt asks me on IM tonight -

"yep, once or twice."

"you are cameron."

i laughed out loud. and then started to think about it. and stared at my fingers on the dark keyboard keys. (soundtrack. mr big - to be with you)

//

going ahead with doing "oleanna" but not until after "a view from the bridge" is over and we're all back from ACTF - which happens in a week. terror!

i feel like a sketch of myself, a flaky and crumbled pencil drawing that has yet to be inked and painted out. i'm hoping rehearsals end soon. that people come to this room for even just a little while. i have to practice being less vocal - but otherwise i hope i'm a generally functional member of society .. of the "group" of... whoever happens to be present ... i just talk too much. about stupid things. i'll just have to make an effort to watch myself.

// (key change)

this week has been obstreporously awful. swinging back and forth, oscillating from one extreme to the other, trying to figure out if it really is easier to hate ... anyone, really. not any one person in particular, although i had one in mind writing the previous entry, i suppose i was thinking about everyone. cutting them all off and just .. subsisting on myself. eventually i'm sure i'd end up like a member of the donner party, a corpse that ate itself alive on the floor of this room, since i'd never leave it. with some glass fragments embedded in the skull.

i try to have control over things too much, i think. do you realise this journal has been a basic progression of anger and angst? although i can chart from october 2001 when i first began this, to now, when i'm ... different? i hope i've changed. worst part about being yourself, you can't see it. you have to rely on the judgement of other people to help you on that ground ... and who knows if they're correct, or if their judgement is skewed, too?

turn down the volume on my inner monologue. but in order to do that i need to locate the knob. my eyes are glowing but they're lit from the inside, some TV that the Inner Martyr left on before falling asleep. and when he wakes up, i'm sure it'll all go back to normal.

but i suppose i should enjoy this and hope he doesn't become an insomniac.

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