Porthole

Better to cry

On the edge... I need to breathe. I've only been suicidal once in my life. It wasn't a cherished moment.

I had a bad panic attack earlier. I should be able to work everything out by Monday.

Regardless, I'm not well. It's impossible to explain that to anyone here. I may as well be dead to those that matter. I'm that invisible to anyone I care about.

So I'll watch a sad movie, write a sad poem or story, drown in tears. It's better than being numb. I've been numb. I suspect that was a bit like being dead, but without the joy of actually having passed through that door.

55 degrees at 10:10 p.m.

Late night gnocchi.

44 at 10:02 a.m.

Yawning, but at least the water is boiling for coffee and it's bright and beautiful outside. Slept okay. I took a shower before I went to bed.

50 at 11:22.

First consumed.

First poem, an etheree, written. "DEW #4a Rolling the stone away [26]" 

64 degrees at 2:48.

Another poem "DEW #4b "2:22 and thinking of you" [27]" 

A shower, more caffeine, then grab my camera.

61 degrees at 6:40.

Rain coming in before midnight. Fotos of daffodils. I walked among the buttercups. Some biscuitroot in bloom. Said hello to a dog. Threw a frisbee twice. It felt good getting out. Remembered to buy 2 gallons of milk, still $7. At home I opened up a new jar of creamy peanut butter and dunked in milk laced with the last of the coffee. I'll open up a new jar of coffee tomorrow.

: Stanford beats Arizona 54-53.

4231