For the past few days I've been sustaining my nutritional existence with coffee, diet pop, and peanut butter. At the moment I'm sustaining my emotional existence with The Moon and Antarctica. And it is a great psychological existence. It's great because it is so incredibly sad and happy and everything I ever could have imagined to feel this past summer. It is Delta. It is warmth. It's a flop house. It is the smell of too many cigarettes and the beer I didn't drink. It's a bipolar episode; the pinnacle of joy and the deepest aspects of sadness. When I listen to it I don't exactly know how to feel besides nostalgic. I feel heartbroken and this immense sense of anticipation for something that already happened. I look down from a balcony and then up at a cinema ceiling falling apart next to clouds of smoke. I feel the remnants of an incredibly painful and necessary developmental transition. I see insanity. I see the windows rolled down, and the corn isn't even up to my knees; the yellow lines of the road passing by the wheels of a shitty car. Like every second falling through my fingers that I tried so hard to cherish. Memories aren't good enough. We always forget the moments that so horribly mattered. And I so desperately want to smell particular summer air again.

Yesterday, I read a 'journal entry' from my old computer, circa May 2002. It made me laugh so hard at life's delightful tricks that I started to cry. How marvelous to think of past thoughts. Pull them out of their filling cabinets and cupboards. But in reference to what I read, I realize that my heart was never fickle, which is the most charming part of it all. I always knew what I felt, but multiple personalities, insecurities and plain stupidity seem to consistently get in my way. One of the most interesting aspects of this past writing is it was almost a prophecy. I would say it was. I really would. A marvelously ignorant and insecure prophecy. I love myself. I love that I love. I wish I were better at manifesting it. But my goodness, do I get in my way. I am absolutely the best and worst person I know. I am an enemy. My beautiful body and mind are berated by my repulsive body and mind. I have such a delightful body. I have such a delightful mind. More and more, whenever I am feeling disgusting, I'll just take off my shirt and stare at my bare torso to make myself feel human and lovely. I do love my body. I love touching the hooks of my pelvic bone. I love feeling the groves of my chest cavity and the concave divot underneath my ribs that slowly ascends to a fleshy stomach, then back down to a valley between my hip bones. I love the scent of my shoulders, running my thumb across my jaw line, curling my toes around the folds of sheets, and kissing my knees when I'm in the bathtub. I love my swollen eyes in my morning. They look so unaware and old and sad and worn out. I love my cheekbones. Last night, before I went to bed, I took a bath, and when I took off my shirt and stared at the sides of my stomach, the veins leading upwards (downwards? either/or/both) were extremely pronounced, and it was delightful. My upper body was like this intricate living, breathing map. Aside the arteries were my stretch marks and my ribs, and I inhaled and exhaled, and it was this beautiful, linear living piece of art. It was nice. I was pleased. But if we were to look closely, to x-ray, everyone would see black lungs and angry intestines. So my body is a physical interpretation of my mind. In both cases it's completely my fault, and I could fix it if I really tried hard. I could mend the bad respiratory system and the torn up insides just as I could eradicate the ugly, insecure and pitiful thought pattern. Or maybe this is just how I am. I could do better. I know I can. But. - It turns out that?s all I have to say about that after sitting here for a few minutes contemplating that thought.
In that case:

it's hard to remember we're alive for the first time
it's hard to remember we're alive for the last time
it's hard to remember to live before you die
it's hard to remember to that our lives are such a short time
it's hard to remember when it takes such a long time
it's hard to remember
...
my hell comes from inside
comes from inside myself
why
fight
this

everyone's afraid of their own lives
if you could be anything you want
I bet you'd be disappointed
am I right?

All of those words seem so simple, but they aren't easily considered or digested. My God, I love this album. It is too good for words. It's almost too good to even listen to, at times. If that makes sense. It does to me.