May 15th, 2008
I find it odd to address you, Dear Journal. As if you were anyone other than my own ego, my own consciousness, reading, quietly taking note of my (our) unraveling but powerless to stop it.
Today, I found her. My birthday present.
By the lake.
Dark hair, brushing against her downy bare back in ringlets. That hair will be beautiful, flowing like thin reeds, under the water, tangling in the green things that must grow on the bottom. The lake is living, she will be a part of it. She will be beautiful forever. An underwater Venus. Her pale arms, delicate fingers, waving like the grasses.
I watched her, book in hand and milky pale skin. Beautiful skin, a beautiful wrapper to peel off in soft layers. I hummed the birthday song. It was silly, but she made me feel wonderful again with her soft wrapping paper.
Dear Ego, I looked up, hearing a noise outside, (paranoia, surely someone must come and find me soon) and glanced at my reflection in the window. I am like a waxen simulacrum of a man. A terrifying image. I will love her all the more for making me all the more horrible.
Blood. Will red blood, mingling in dense clouds with blue water billow in inky purpleness? The question excites me. Heightened senses anticipate the deep red like melting wax on her paper like skin, the purple union of blood and water, and the sharpness of young screams.
I heard a bird, a crow or magpie probably, screech across the lake. I anticipate her screams will echo, filling the abyss.
Thinking of the abyss, I nearly blacked out. Behind the shed, I thought of holding her by the throat, lifting up her sundress.
God brought her to me. The trinity, the branches in man’s mind. In God I am perfection. A fully realized trinity of urge, conceptualization of the urge, and caution (fear, a mechanism by which I am compelled to plan, schedule, and maintain the urge).
So help me Jesus I will love her for eternity. My Angel.
But she is the singularity too. My singularity. From the first whimper that escapes her bleeding lips I will expand. My mind will expand beyond the confines now loosely holding it. Constructs of thoughts forming mad galaxies spider webbed through dark matter. Solar systems where stainless steel orbits a severed tie between mother and son.
The noise outside again, Dear Holy Ghost, I hear you whisper ‘caution’. Perhaps I should retire. Shut out the lights and for once, dream about tomorrow.