May 11th, 2002 - 3:04 a.m.

Contempt.

I wonder how it feels to live a life of illusion. Pretending all the emotions. Success dictated by the telly. (Must have soap opera passion, rid the cellulite, light and easy, low fat yet gluttonous, a new car, the new Spring wardrobe, the hair, know the gossip, save the pennies, I am happy, oh so happy.) Wondrously masking all signs of contempt or adoration. And diving into uncomfortable territory, ignoring all niceties and general courtesy, shooting first. Expecting the casualties to pick themselves off the floor, regather the organs, smile and wave the intruder off with pleasant bientot's. The momentary concerns. Nothing permanent. Nothing consistent. One thing merely serves as the opposite to the other. Proof and disproof. But all misinformation.

"I cannot breathe through this mess."

An overexplored territory, I know, but in these exile surroundings, with no entertainment spotted on the horizon, one can only fixate upon the trivialities of the television. Which only makes one feel sickened, that people could believe and live this festering foolishness. It breaks my heart. Amongst other things.

Yes, this heart of mine is broken again.

N.

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