Transcribed from old journal - that yellow bastard

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June 8th, 1998


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1998.0608.0000::Transcribed from old journal
There's a certain benefit to breaking up with someone that many people don't really partake of. Catharsis. For me, at least, emotions are always far more intense following a breakup. I find it far easier to find empowerment in my anger, to lose focus in my sadness.

And media tend to get far more relevant. Even the horribly cheesy love songs sound profound after a breakup. Stupid television shows that I usually scoff at, evoke bewildering memories and emasculating tears.

I've found that my writing improves during these times. Hell, I hardly write when I'm happy--I've composed my best verses while singing the chorus of "Why the fuck did she leave me?"

I'm writing more lately. Ms. Kjos is pushing me to write. And the things I find coming from my fingertips are good--granted not exactly Hemingway or Shakespeare, they have called out a tear or two.

I thought for a moment of staying, of forcing her to recognize that I still existed in this life, that beyond this final act of passion we were still connected in some way. She stirred slightly in her sleep, and the bed creaked as I backed away slowly to avoid her arms. She clutched herself to a pillow, mumbled slightly, and returned to her slumber.

I watched her for some time, studying her softness under the blankets. Her breathing slowed, and I saw her eyes jump into motion beneath her eyelids. She was dreaming--more than likely of someone other than the man who had just shared her bed, her body.

I silently, but hurriedly, gathered my things--retrieving my shoes from underneath the bed, throwing my shirt over my body. When I had found everything, I knelt beside the bed and gingerly kissed her brow.

"Sweet dreams."

For a brief second, I thought I saw the sides of her mouth curl slightly. I watched her again, for a few moments, and then, holding my shoes in my hands, I stepped from her room.

As I walked towards the car, my vision began to blur. I felt the warm wetness roll down my cheeks as I drove away. I didn't feel like wiping the tears from my face.


And I would trade it all to be with her again.

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thepeopleseason::2005.12.15.01:24 am
[User Picture]Found amongst my papers:

'final act of passion' might be her finality -- 'final act of passion' in the memory of the "I" isn't enough. There must be connection--rather a role-reversal kind of emotion.

For some women today, who have been deceived that they can have it "all"--one final action involving passion might be all they can understand.
--M. Kjos

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