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Beauty in joy and horror 2001-10-23 - 3:20 a.m. 
I was on a hill, looking down into the valleys stretching before me, vividly reminded of myself. Even sitting amidst the darkness in this silly wooden chair, the light is still clear and warm. Green grasses stretched out before me, sunlight tinged with enough gray to make it easy to see. Everything was spread out at once: where I had been, the different passes to tomorrow. But now...now is such a strange time. It's like when you've been writing or doing anything for a long while. Suddenly you come to and you actually see what you're doing, feel the weight of the ship rocking back and forth.This time off has let me appreciate people more. I used to not have many friends when I was younger. Now, I know I'm not alone. It's nice, comforting. I try letting other people know that, but they don't believe me. Guilt and pride seem to be the most tangibly transparent things. Fear of stepping on toes, needing things or people that we feel we shouldn't need. I don't understand. The graveyard was enchanting this evening. I go there on occasion in the late afternoon to read a book and camp out near this new plot toward the entrance. There's a trellis in a half-bowl shape facing away from the dirt path and a young tree growing on and around it. Bits of ivy here and there lead out to the plaque, where one of three sisters are buried. I like it best, though, because it says "welcome." They even made a bench for people to sit under the tree. No other plot is like that here. It's odd, since it gives me an anchor to guide myself by at night. You probably think I'm morbid or weird for walking through a graveyard at night by myself. I agree with you. I don't know why I like remote, frightening, and horrificly chilling locations. As an aside, there's a forest nearby where a thick fog covers the lakes and trees. It's always deathly quiet. I can hear a violin or two, maybe a low french horn or tuba, whispering thin, tense notes that warn me how utterly out of place and vulnerable I am. I hear the leaves rustle, imagine eyes staring at me, through me like a knife. I feel so cold, so alert to every nuance around me. I get the same feeling when I walked down that rocky road. I don't believe in ghosts, really, but there's a very peculiar feeling in a graveyard at night. Maybe it's fear of our dead, leaving them to whatever world they or only we create. It's a feeling that screams to me how I should not be there. I trespass because...I don't know. Maybe to see if something will trespass on me, see if there is a knife in the night. I've known people who dealt with the dead specifically, but I rather not talk about them. Maybe it brings out the sunlight I'm fond of, or maybe I just want to feel sinfully alive. Either way, there's a bit of beauty in each of those places. |
