|Current music:||The Gufs--Happily Ever After|
I had an appointment with Doctor Avramov today, so that I could refill my prescription. But I loathe drugs, and I did not go. My mother is going to be furious, but right now I'm too dulled to care. I would welcome her accusatory howls except that they are too routine to break my boredom.
I don't know why I am updating again. I have nothing to say, really. The possibility of seeing Rian--no, the reality, as my visit draws nearer--for some reason does not excite me the way it once would have. She contacts my sister more often than she does me, but that is alright. I think she may have started a relationship with a mutual friend of ours and is not telling me, and that is alright too. When you care about someone, I think, whether it is love or not you want them to be happy. This is why I do not fall in love. If I was in love, maybe this would hurt.
I wore a shirt with a swastika on it today, and someone threw a rock at me. It myshoulder, and is bruising in quite the interesting pattern--a fine cut on the upper line, black beside it fading out to purple-blue and then livid red at the edges. It looks like watercolour just beneath my pale skin, surreally vivid. As if I were translucent. I am not angry at whoever threw it, but I pity them. People are so closed-minded. I tell people that I find recordings of Adolf Hitler's speeches inspirational, and all of sudden they shrink back, shy away, treat me like a rabid animal. I don't bite though. People take that wrong, is all. I don't want to hurt anyone. What is so wrong with admiring a man of passion? A man who wanted to fill the world with perfect people?
I don't even know what I am talking about, or why. I love this song. I wanted to write, but my block still hovers, and all I managed today was a few scraps of poor poetry. Seraph wings and hands of wraith, very standard fare. I seem to have lost my touch, since meeting Rian. I have always forgiven her for this. It is not her fault. They say though, that humans are most eloquent in mourning.
Maybe if she dies, I will be able to write again.