Trompé Setsuled (setsuled) wrote,
Trompé Setsuled

  • Music:

Questions and failure

About a half an hour ago I noticed that trisa has blocked me from posting on her journal.

I hesitate to draw many conclusions. This could mean a lot of things. True, none of them good . . .

It's funny, though, how so very much can be communicated by such a small, simple act. At the very least I know this means she doesn't want me talking to her--at least on her journal. Although I think it's safe to infer that the act arises from a general desire to severe contacts with me.

Whatever the case, I now find myself asking those questions again . . . am I a good person? Can I even identify the things I said to her that alienated her so? I think I act out of a love for her, a desire to see good things happen for her, and for us to have a good time together. But what if I don't know myself so well? There's certainly a lot of things I don't know . . . maybe she just realised that for her own health, it wasn't good to expend energies on an amateur like myself.


After reading her message, I went to kind of numbly eat a couple of cheese tamales. I guess I was kind of clinging to the fact that I'd been hungry for them for the past several hours.

I switched on the Sci-Fi channel as I ate, and found myself watching an episode of The Twilight Zone (the original series with Rod Serling). It was about a guy having somehow actually travelled back in time through nostalgia--he went back to his home town, and starting wandering the park he'd played in as a kid, only to find himself teleported back to one of the days he was recalling.

I became oddly enthralled by the episode, and I had to watch it to the end, even after I'd finished my food.

I just . . . finished watching the episode . . . cleaned off my plate and cutlery . . . and came back in here. It strikes me how without drama, how utterly regular all of these activities are. It could go just like this on any night.

I feel bleak, I guess. But only for myself. The world, on the other hand . . . I just don't know about it.

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