Racing death and loss

Irritated by giggly girls, obsessed with fake hair pieces (and now fake scalps) and clothes and all things celebrity and superficial. I'm in the middle, the centre of all this feeling overwhelmingly claustrophic, sick to the stomach with the stench of too many strong but sweetly mixed perfumes made by famous people I couldn't care less about and who I assume reciprocate my indifference. Each screech of their excited chatter is like squeeky chalk to the chalkboard, but magnified, right inside my eardrum. I figit irrated, frustrated, and try to control my illness by looking over the hair piece, over the seemingly huge-blocking-the-view-head, and out the window.

And out of the window... I wish I hadn't looked out of the window... Infact, while I'm at this point, wishing... I wish I was more girly, more into hair pieces... I wish I wore weaves, wigs... all 'w' things, things that matter to girls... I wish I didn't have the burden of caring... because its a heavy burden... because out of the window, my view, exclusive to me, because I was sick of the perfume, and escaping the chatter with daydreams... out of my view... I saw the procession.

A beautiful mother, held up on either side, beside herself with grief, laying flowers on the side of the road, beside herself, beside herself... she was so grieved, marking the spot where her loved one died, with flowers, marking the 'X' with flowers, distraught, that spot... it was haunting me that it was haunting her... that spot on the road.

More death... I see my brother marking the spot, I see him... love and lost, 10 years, gone... and I see him marking the spot in everything. In every smile, laugh, in the togetherness of families, in my trying to console him... he marks the spot, and it haunts him. How can we be happy when he's in pain? I see him gulp. Hand-holding couples make him gulp. He swallows spit slowly, heavily, he's marking the spot... the spot where the pain starts. He doesn't see me seeing him... and that marks my spot.

I hate to see pain. Because I feel it. And it irritates me when no one notices the pain. I'm in pain. I can't fix him. that mother. another mother Natasha Richardson, with all her glow... she just glows... but her glow is gone.

The giggly girls: "oh she's faking Cancer for money..." but Jade died this morning... a perfectly imperfect person with flawless flaws. And theres just pain. Did I bring pain? My birthday is the first day of spring - new life? Not loss and death. Death and loss.

So this early this morning, I just ran, hoping to freeze out the pain. Pace maker scars would be better than a real heart. I ran faster hoping to outrun the pain. And I stopped, sat on the street and cried. Embrace pain.