11.19.01

i'm afraid i've become boring. wasting away is a full time, all-encompassing occupation. i'm trying, i really am, but the lack of sunlight, depression, and the onset of winter all make it hard to find any footholds out of this shadowy, skeletal haven i'm in.

days go by. i eat or i don't eat. or i eat and i puke. for variety, you know. my apartment, scattered with pieces of paper and napkin corners, all full of numbers. calories. a stack of library books, unread and overdue. i am disinterested in most things that require me to be present and attentive.

clear away those romantic images of wasting away that anorexia calls to mind. this is not dramatic. this is not even interesting. it's dull, and repetitive, trivial, even. and yet day after day i choose this way to navigate the world. day after fucking day i avoid living like a real person and instead hide behind my eating disorder.

i am an intelligent person, goddamn it. i used to have something of substance to say. i used to be able to put a pen to paper and write something that had a pulse.

and now, what?

i avoid the pen, the paper, the writing circle, the mirror, the friends, the truth.

that if i keep going in this direction, there is only one end destination. is that what i want?

there is a choice, a choice i have to make, a choice that i make by default every day that i don't eat enough, don't nourish myself, every day that i pop another heart-stopping diet pill, and that choice is this:

which do you want to be, moonbird, a writer, or a hunger artist?

which do you want to be, moonbird, a vibrant woman of substance, or a shadow?

which do you want to be, moonbird, alive, or dead?

the answers seem obvious, and then there is the reality of the implicit answer in how i am living.

now is a time when i will admit, i could use prayer.

***

xoxo,

moonbird

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