I can feel that the ibuprofen has kicked in. I still hurt, but the pain is coming from much further away.

 Not sure why, but when I catch a glimpse of one of those clear, vinyl, decorated bags from my childhood in the 70s, I get the shivers. My first instinct is joy: that's where Mom kept my toys when we went out. The emotion following is overwhelming. An intense wave of powerlessness. 

I've looked into myself as deeply as I could, and don't believe there was a specific harm that happened to me in those early years. I must be associating it with a wave of grief that was drowning my mother. The rawness of her sorrow--it was uncontainable. She had lost her sister, and, to this day, a handful of years since Mom passed, I don't think she recovered. 

What makes one person so much more harmed by sorrow than another person? I wish I had an answer.

 I feel guilty saying this, but I really don't understand love. As humans, everything we do is conditional, opportunistic. That's hw we survive, right? Am I a sociopath that I feel that love is a protective projection?

But I mean, sometimes I'll feel absolute warmth coming from no ulterior motives, and that is "love." 

And my best friend in the world is genuine in her compassion and feelings and love, and I feel that it is unconditional. 

So it's back to: my love is conditional.

 Eating an ice cream sandwich to stave off the hunger growls. Started suffering around 4ish. Stomach so irate. Epuise. Knives and stoppage and digestive tract as hard as clay. The breathing comes and goes. Lordie if I loved you a little.. Sophomore year barbaric. Hyperbaric. God you dont know The loneliness its own holiness. Tenderness of ink, tired stoic eyes A heart, a loaded heart. A muscle, thumping pumping muscle so full of life on its own One final heartbeat, who knows which number

My lungs seek gas exchange. They long to be full of air, not fluid. They plead, send out hopeful antennae. Sensitive as roaches'.

A heart. The coeur y corazon of things. Der Hertz.

The lonesomeness. The longingliness. The search for night. The search for the Dark. The moon coldly terrorizing me. How I am her.

 Revisiting depression. It's not wanting to be labeled as depressed, because maybe I'm laying it on too thick. Maybe I'm self-pitying, maybe I'm trying to get too much sympathy. Yeah, maybe I am. Because I'm down and lonely, and sympathy would feel fucking good. So should I be angry instead? Yes. A bit of righteous anger. Not rage or vengeance, just the beautifuk burn of purifying motivating anger. Sparkling like a gem. 

Ok, I do see why anxiety is my actual diagnosis. But when do i say enough, i gotta feel afraid and do what i need to do in spite of it. Or better, when do i not experience such absolute terror?  When do i not let the fear be my excuse for everything?

 Being charmed is such a small, wonderful sensation. The intricate metalwork of the Eiffel Tower, some March snowflakes drifting down on me from an upper storey. It was too crowded, the elevators congested and taking forever. The postcards with cats while I never spied a single feline in the 3 weeks I was there. But the Tower was enchanting. So glad I set up that tour before I arrived. I would not have been patient enough for those outrageous lines. 

The moment of being charmed is so intimate.  It cannot be expected.

 What am I on about?! Trixie is an absolutely miniature cat. Maybe she's a runt? Her eyes are saucers and the grey ticked parts of her short coat are exquisite. She's very curious. She absolutely adores Christopher. Lily is definitely on the defensive.

I'm angry because I'm hungry, but when I go to eat it's just so unpleasant on my tastebuds. My legs are ready to move. Like really move and walk. And dance?

I guess anger is what I must express in art. Or passion. Sometimes I don't feel the difference.

Hope. Literal dry throat thirst. Possibilities.