01.30.2002 - 1:49 p.m.

Last night I slept the deep sleep of one who has cried herself empty to get there. I didn�t actually cry, just stumbled in the door around eleven and got ready for bed. I looked for the cat, who usually welcomes me home, but I suppose she was already sleeping with my roommate. I spent a good while sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a drawing I�d done earlier that evening. Trying to decide who I should give it to, or if I should keep it, and if I kept it whether it should get taped into my sketchbook. It�s a pretty good likeness - I was proud when I finished it. I haven�t drawn anything in a long time. But staring at it, I could only see that the ear and eye were a bit too small, the forehead a stroke too tall, the cheek a little too wide. I should give it to someone, now that I�ve seen what I didn�t make it do. I should give it to someone who�d see and appreciate what I did manage to capture. I did a good job on the posture, the expression, the typing hands surrounded by the trash and clutter of a well-used desk. The shape of the shadows on the shirt and behind the elbow. I just can�t look at it for any length of time and still see those things.

And that right there is the subtext of my entire life.

I stuck the drawing on my nightstand shelf and rolled under my covers, thinking in broad, unpleasant circles, but they weren�t sharp enough to cry over. I don�t remember falling asleep.

This morning I woke up from a convoluted dream I still remember in its entirety, too hot, with crunchy eyes. I woke from the dream to find reality underfed.

Leaving for work, I slid into my car and looked down to see two pint glasses in my cupholders, gifts from some friends who know I needed them. �It�s not your job to stop me from feeling,� I told the glasses. It made no sense, but that�s what I said.

Maybe I have my contacts in the wrong eyes again- the edges of everything have echoes, as if I am looking at the world through double-paned glass. I don�t feel here; I feel like my body is sitting in some position and the chair, desk, and computer are somewhere else, inches and miles separate from wherever it is that I am. I feel numb between the temples. I notice only the odd details, today; or perhaps not odd, but the mildly depressing details so normal that no-one cares to notice them. I have several conversations on the paths between errands:

�Good morning,� they say as we approach each other.

�Hey,� I say. I sound chipper, awake, pleased to see them.

�How are you,� they ask, and I tell them,

�Pretty good,� emphasizing the second word as if I am a bit surprised, yet eager to share my enjoyment of something. �And you?� My voice feels abnormally loud and distinct, as if I am speaking into a microphone or an empty paper towel roll.

�Fine,� they answer, just as we reach the point where we would have to turn or stop in order to look at each other. I turn my head, just a little, but they never do. That�s the end of the conversation, every time.

-stonebridge

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