21 November 2002

(Black Journal Excerpt 3 - "A Wish Before Sleep")

I feel so beautiful and lucky, like one of those times where I'm not writing but reading the words appear on the empty page... Where I'm not living, but observing actions of my body while I exist passively within it, smiling. Where my life is much too perfect, and I want to give my luck to anyone and everyone else so they can be as happy as I am. It's the kind of mood you want to be in when you die, because you feel ready; I honestly do. Not because I wish death upon myself- I'm fucking ecstatic- but because I am just so happy that I think even death couldn't bring me down.

Everything is perfect, and I feel that when I step on the plane tomorrow- or today- it's like I may never come back; you never do. Home always changes to encompass your changes, this constantly evolving space that emotes warmth and an undying love: a nostalgia for a time that keeps happening, a nostalgia for now. I want to scream that this is what life's about. I want to call everyone I know and thank them. I want to hug and hold the photograph that is this moment, and trace my fingertips over each shape within it. Kiss it. Fall into it again. Fall into this moment and watch it smile, welcoming me in.

I want to call Alex and wake her, even talk to her as she sleeps. Tell her I'll miss her again. See her rub her nose, moan, flap my comforter five times before she goes to sleep again and I stay awake, staring at her face as I wish for dreams.

God, thank you for this moment. Thank you for all these moments. This is all just one long moment, isn't it...