7:04 p.m. - 2001-05-20
contact
Did I ever mention my absolute need for human contact? As a rule it's always better to talk to me. No matter what. The reason I keep a diary here and not in a notebook under my bed is that I like to hold onto the illusion that people are reading and people are thinking about what I'm saying. I don't care about myself, really; I've already thought about it. I want to make a difference in someone's mental prose. I want someone to read this and feel something else. Suddenly taste purple, smell cut grass, feel the pulsing space around the center of their neck. I want someone to make a point of touching someone else in that place just above where the spinal column ends and the hairline begins, to feel the softness there. I want someone to talk to me for no reason other than they felt something about me once, or noticed my face in a crowd, or noticed my writing in the jumble. I want someone to write me! My Email address is down there and my AIM name is also down there. Why don't people say something when something moves them, or am I just not having an impact?

I crave human interaction, and against my own will, I am in love with humanity. The fatal flaws, the selfishness, the inherent confusion. The jealousy, the sensuality, the intensity. The curve of the fingers when they massage, the line of the profile when they sleep, the crease of the lips when they go slack. The anger, the exhilaration, the desperate need for love. This is part of me and part of everyone. I am in complete love with all of it.

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