The Lost Pigeon Project, continued...

Sometimes I wish that all I did was keep this journal... screw all the online shit. I write and write and write... I don’t know what the point is. I’m still a lost pigeon. My life may indeed make an entertaining book, but unless you've lived it... you’ll never understand. So many people just want to project... the whole “well, if I can do it, so can you” attitude.

I’ve felt so violent lately. I know that I won’t hurt anyone... other than myself that is... but stifling the rage is getting more and more difficult. I knew that I’d long for the roach infested corpse motel when I left it... and I do now. I long for some quiet.. .some SLEEP, some mobility and freedom. I don’t know what the answer is. I have an online friend who has been attempting to convince me to move South and live with him. It’d be the same situation as here though, maybe minus the noise. Too, we’re very different people. He’s a leave the door open, share everything Christian... I’m a lock the door, what’s mine is mine Pagan. I’m also a Polywere... an MPD person who never stopped tripping... and he’ll never get that. Neither option is ideal... then... neither is the street. I could do a repeat of ‘93... get rid of just about everything and hit the road... but why? In a way, I’ve already done it. All I have is what is in this room... the rest is in storage... may as well be gone. It’s just not the way I want to live... not the way I’ll survive for very long.

...then... do I really want to survive for very long? I don’t know. I really have no fucking clue as to what it is that I want.


I really don’t know how much more I can take... I don’t know what to do either. Stuck stuck stuck.

What the fuck is the answer?