"It was just my mistake, thinking you cared, it was just my mistake" Duffy
2008-06-06, 1:49 p.m.

Each day goes slow, like molasses. I�m never sure where it starts and where it ends. It�s a continuum really, from day to day, because I never shut off, I never rest. Each night is a recording session of what�s happened during the daylight hours, and each time I�m done, I awake to the sound of more sun. I almost prefer the calculating coldness of the dark. I never rest. Never sleep. I dread each time my head hits the pillow, yet I can�t wait for it. I�m in for another night of restless tossing, followed by a screaming alarm clock to welcome me back to the world. Yet it�s my restless tossing. I don�t have to share it, and in it no one expects anything of me. No one evaluates my dreams, or my sleeplessness. It�s mine to do with as I please.
Not much else in my life is. From the second I was born I was doomed. This is what happens when your father unwittingly marries a women dying slowly of a fatal disease. She will be the first and last woman to ever love you, because you are her own, and no other woman will love you without recompense. My sisters birthday was in her hospital room, she blew out her candles sitting on a hospital bed. I couldn�t do anything for her but sing happy birthday, and now she�s estranged and foreign to me. Another person at 18 than she was at 5 when she was my soul in walking form. Now she�s my thorn, in walking form. No one worries about me. I am the raveler, the assurer, and I will forever tell everyone I�m alright. And I am. I am all right. Right brained, right handed, I am a preferer of right turns and right answers. All right since the day I knew which way was which. In the fifth grade I learned my right from my left. Right hand for slapping, right hand for eating, right hand for scratching out paper, and left for pretending. I pretended I hurt my wrist. People seem to care about you when you�re sick and 9 years old. It was my right wrist. And when it was over, I could write with both hands, for pretend. And I played pretend all over the place with all kinds of people and things. I was never in my own head until I was 16 and something told me it was me alone against the world, and it was better to face it head on. So I never played pretend again, but I gained 30 lbs. So I was keeping it real while gaining weight, and some of those pounds went to my head, and made me hate my body, and love the sound of my own voice. I started everything worth starting, including college, a book, clubs and they anchor me and I hate them for it. I could be dead, or wandering, lusting after sand beaches and self indulgence, but instead I�m lusting after world peace and indestructible justice, taking the narrow road. But the other roads are so much easier. I could be a nobody, and never be in one place long enough to get a degree, and maybe I�d still be happy. Instead I bear it all, my crosses and her crosses, and my thorns crosses, so I can be anchored long enough for something to take root, and grow a money tree, that rains down on other doomed people like me. I�m the lamp man talking about matters of consequence, and the little prince is laughing at me silently, wondering what the hell am I doing. And they�ll read all about me in classes around the world. All about my lamp lighting skill, and how I abuse it till it�s mechanical and lacks the finesse of truth. Change is never easy because you love the things you�re familiar with and the grass is always greener on the other side.
The fate of us Gemini�s is that we�ll never be satisfied.