Hole of Love, Backhoe of Bitterness (11/28/08 Friday)

The anger won't ebb. I'm sick of trying to talk it away. As much as I know what I should do, I just can't do it. I can't run away, I can't avoid; I can't fill the emotional void with books and tv and alcohol. The dirt dug from the earth is the only proper thing to refill the hole made with the shovel. Love is the only thing to fill my hole. It's why so much means so little to me anymore: I know what I need and I know where I won't find it. The books, the music, the writing, the talking--throw them all in--the hole is a black one for them. I just want love. Julie can't give me that, but I can't stop hoping, anyway. I've called hope a prod, but it's more of an acid, disintegrating reason and knowledge almost instantly. It's hard to believe, but I do want to give Julie up. Hope won't let me. I want to run away from Julie, to avoid her without shame, to go back to my books and the pretense of a fulfilling life. I want Julie to hurry up and go away. These are the only solutions I see anymore, and my heart has no eyes. I want to say that I hope Julie isn't uncomfortable with me now. I want to say that I don't want anything I've said or done to have affected the way she sees or treats me. I want to, but I can't. I want just the opposite. I want her in turmoil. I want to blow all her emotional compartments to bits and let escape everything she pretends not to feel.