She said this:
“We have something esoteric and rare and here I go adulterating it with social networking and a fake internet self. This thing I am showing you avoids the mandate to write something “that doesn’t suck” by utilizing the writing of others. Self-expression by proxy (I like that idea).”
By-Proxy is all I feel capable of right now:
Dear diary, I’m afraid I’m gravely ill. It is perhaps times like these that one reflects on things past. An article of clothing from when I was young. A green jacket. I walk with my father. A game we once played. Pretend we’re faeries. I’m a girl faerie. My name is Laura Lee. And you’re a boy faerie. Your name is Tita Lee. Pretend, when we’re faeries we fight each other, and I say “Stop hitting me I’ll die!” And you hit me again and I say, “Now I have to die.” And then you say, “But I’ll miss you.” And I say, “But I have to. And you’ll have to wait a million years to see me again. And I’ll be put in a box, and all I’ll need is a tiny glass of water and lots of tiny pieces of pizza and the box will have wings like an airplane.” And you’ll ask, “Where will it take you?” “Home.” I say.
(Tag: Tiny Pieces of Pizza.)
(The font change is really pissing me off.)
Itinerantdaughter's Blog 
September 14, 2009 at 12:06 am |
“I don’t know where or when, just that it happened. I have tried all day to recapture the feeling. There was a scent of trees. I was the world, the world was me. A landscape is like a face.”