Images from today:

I leaned back in my chair, face to the ceiling, and used my hands to comb my hair back away from my face, waiting for some piece of text to appear on the monitor. Eyes fixed on the blank, subdued light filtering through the foggy glass of the window. Against it, stars were circling, as if I had just banged my head hard against the pavement. But I saw them more clearly than ever before: they were swimming, like paramecia under a powerful lens. Not in circles, but writhing like something unable to control its own movement. I was seeing the maggots that inhabit my vitreous.

The darkness of the inside of my hand, my head buried in it. I can’t bear to look at the screen any longer. Words I’ve typed there have been erased with a click on the scroll button, but the damage has already been done. - Enter - Now I’m waiting. I can’t bear to watch, so I wait head in hand, waiting for the entirety of the text to appear before I glance. I want it all at once, the news all in one blow. And I don’t want it vague or innocuous; I want it to sting with validation or rejection, but not the murky uncertainty in between. Not that. I can’t live with that. I can’t respond to that. I am alone in this house, but the intense interpersonal interaction coming from the inanimate screen makes me feel naked in front of an audience of judges. But I crave it too; the disconnection is worse than the malaise brought on by the act of expression and the inevitable reaction it solicits.

Bright red blood on white. So brilliant. Time and time again the star of movies. Always too bright there, I think; real blood turns brown after a minute or so. But when it has come from me, it looks foreign, dangerous: an impostor fleeing.

Chiffon pink creme in a small flat jar of the same color, black twist-on lid. Obnoxious, almost unbearable, faux powdered-flowers fragrance; reminds me of a similar pink jar of cream on my grandma's dresser. It promises the miracle of youth, but it reminds me more of age.