Dec. 30, 2003 @ 12:36 a.m.

I keep getting pushed, like I’m in the mosh pit at a really, really, really good show and instead of being able to enjoy the music, all I can concentrate on is throwing elbows and screaming “Stop moshing to such a slow song!” I’m being forced to move on, passing cracked mirrors of my memories represented in fashionless defamation in that silvery, nontangible glory. Pieces of the past, falling down like cookies crumbling onto the ground and getting walked on by thousands of feet like a New York City sidewalk, endlessly through the night and end of time. The puzzle pieces that once fit together don’t anymore and all I can think about as I sit here, typing away to the only pieces of the past that still lives, “This isn’t the same, not at all.” I’ve always felt like my childhood was disappearing but now I feel like instead of pointing to a chunk of it and expressing that “There it is,” I now find myself saying “Well, there it was.” No longer do I stand cookie in hand, ready to drown away the dryness with sugar water with a name and designed packaging. As I face the world and attempt to tip my hat, it smiles back at me devilishly with a deceiving grin of downplay and desertion. Only this isn’t small potatoes; this is Guiness World Record size right here. This feeling is terrible. It’s like the dream where you’re reaching for something beautiful and your fingers are two inches too short of grasping it, only instead of being able to awaken and forget, I can't seem to sleep and remember.