#8mile

Another try at (write)ing which I have to do twice today. Thinking about how this thing is kind of secret and kind of not. My friends are sitting in the other room and laughing and we just watched 8 mile and Eminem’s eyes were really intensely blue and I loved the sound of him breathing and looking so upset. A little bit funny feeling at the end of my beer when it comes to:

..Feeling really tired at the middle-end of each day, crushed by the weight of the erotic, friends and how can you tenderly tell a story again and again, again, is my condition actually a sign of being “lost in life” like that psychologist said in the book? Is it actually worth it to keep recording the song over and over and will it ever be right? Missing the smell of old sweets and missing the beginning of my adulthood even though I feel like it’s happening again? The recurring theme in the first few days is how you get a little bit more free and you are presented with the opportunity to fulfill desire and then you look to yourself and there’s the cross, there’s the cat-o-nine-tails, there’s the mirror and the razor and the pen, there’s the painting of the garden. As in the exciting things come along and you get paralyzed because the only thing that feels real is self-flagellation, the only thing that feels really really trustworthy is that old looking-through-the-window-at-the-void and grabbing the glass with your hand until you are defeated. ..