Lights on.

The impact was a mixture of the predicted and the unexpected. My investment fell through the floor as people turned on themselves.

Shit I can't write about the mundane. The little and meek writing I know is of the pain, sorrow and maybe anger. I sit here and rack my brain for a string of semi-interesting sentiments and my mind is blank. The kind of blank where its not that you're forgetting something, but your mind is not allowing you to remember. It's a thicker, dumber blank. Like trying to run underwater in a dream.

It's good to know that i can block out the memories; repress them, whatever. I've been 'Freudish' lately thanks to that chapter "Freud goes to California".

It's good that I can no longer belt out about the times. The times like when I wake up next morning curled on the bathroom floor, my head resting on a balled-up towel. When i stand up, i bring my hand to touch my arm where it had been in contact with the floor and my arm is cold, like a dead person.

Okay..looks like if i ventured on a little more, they do appear in the dark. Like a Joan Didion book. I'd walked into MPH for the 114th time asking for Burrough's Possible Side-Effects but end up with something else. But it wasn't the Joan Didion; close though, I wasn't feeling myself.

Until I bought the The Mammoth Book of War Correspondents.

I already have The Mammoth Book of True War Stories. Now all I need is the The Mammoth books of Historial Whodunnits and I'm like a pre-teen with her new magazines for the month. Short non-fiction stories can be just a good as the long ones o.O