he was in my dream again last night. it wasn’t scary at all except for his presence. he behaved like a perfectly normal person, leering at me on the sly because for him to be there was absolutely abnormal and he knew it. for some reason i could not seem to yell or cry out or even whisper to anyone for help. everyone just thought it was all okay and they all thought it was nice to finally meet him. i wanted him to fuck off and die, like he did before, when i hadn’t wanted him to.

will i ever be done? can i ever go to the supermarket or to get gas without looking over my shoulder? where is he? because if i have a sixth sense about it, then he’s unbearably near. if he is still far away, then my paranoia has rendered any intuition i used to have utterly powerless. i used to hate him but then someone told me it took too much of my energy and i should just let it go. which made sense. until something in me snapped and i suddenly started fearing that he would somehow find me, even in a different state with a different name. now being afraid of him costs me twice as much energy as hating him used to. no wonder i can’t fucking sleep.

i’m almost 30, for fuck’s sake!! i don’t WANT to be eighteen again.

it would actually be what i have already experienced with blogging, only it would be permanently in print and irreversible, and it would come from a lot more people.

i do not think i am strong enough to suffer for my art.

i want to write a novel.

but novels are so damned telling. i am not nearly creative enough to make up characters that don’t have any shades of myself or the people i have known. everyone i know would assume the main character was me and that whatever dysfunctions she would have or her family would have were all based in fact. which they might be, but only partly, and with a healthy dose of creative license. i could wait until they all die. and become the first-ever 90something year-old bestselling author.

yeah, they live that long where i come from.

hiatus.
temporary.
promise.