This One Is For... Sao Paolo.

There is something really strange going on inside my body. Like a second adolescence, but without the angsty poetry. Or maybe this is my angsty poetry? Anne was right, Billy Corrigan's poetry is stinky like cat litter left uncleaned for a week. You either have a gift with imagery, or you don't. Let's not delude ourselves, people.

But, I digress.

Things are not touching at my core... things that once would have riled me up are falling away, being ricocheted back off of some new break-wall that I can't entirely see. Like I'm standing on top of it peeking down, what is this thing, and from whence has it come? I like it and don't want it to go away. And feeling so much more connected to life. Life. The trees the air the ground underneath my feet the eye contact of passing strangers. Not all of the talking posturing stuff and nonsense that we dress up in business suits and call life. That which is corollary to the forgetting. The deluding. Feeling slightly judgmental in saying that but there is no longer that tinge of guilt. These are merely observations, anyone can make them, the ground is on fire outside with a blanket of yellow and red fallen leaves. Absolutely gorgeous.

Not physical beauty. Not talking to you in a way that is designed to make you feel better about yourself and therefore value me in your life [sick, non?] Not pretending to care or know about things that I don't care or know about. Still, calm, honest. Whittling away the purposeless. Scraping down to the core emily. She is still a gangling and goofy marionette. But, somehow, different.