Blow after blow land square and hard. He stands, somehow he's remained standing. His knees, however, have become weak. He wobbles. His mind wanders to escape the pain. He forgets why he stands. Soon, he will fall, and the count will begin.

I thought that I felt like writing something. I really did. I even had a couple potential topics in mind. But then, when I sat down at this computer, I lost all interest in writing.

So what I'll do instead is what I always do. I'll repost an old entry from back when I used to write.

Okay, I'm plagiarizing myself here, but it's okay - I gave myself permission.

I hate the Fall.

Too many things have happened to me at this time of the year. There are very few good memories, only memories of death and dying and loss and pain.

I look out my window, and I see that everything around me is dying. The sky is gray, the grass a dull brown. My yard is littered with fallen leaves.

The only things giving color to the world are the leaves. Many of them still cling to their branches, but inevitably, they too will fall and join corpses of their brothers on the ground below. And when they fall, when they spin or glide or spiral through the air, that is when they're at their most beautiful. The death of each leaf is a dance.

I like to stand outside my building at work, when the ivy leaves are falling. Sometimes, a leaf will get caught in the winds swirling around the buildings. Sometimes, a leaf will take a long time to fall, and it will dance in the air for me. If I'm quick enough, and if the winds are just right, I can catch a leaf before it hits the ground. Before its dance is over forever.

My grandmother used to tell me that it was good luck, catching a falling leaf. I'll hold the stem between my thumb and forefinger, and I'll twirl it for a bit, then I'll open my hand and let it finish its fall. Let it finish dying.

Sometimes I envy those leaves. Their most beautiful moment comes at the end of their lives. They don't have to keep living and remembering how wonderful things used to be. And when they fall, they don't have to get back up.

Sometimes I want so badly to reply, but that's not allowed. It's not real communication, after all. It's just an illusion, like everything else.

I've been having a really tough time getting my thoughts together lately. That's one of the big reasons that I don't write very often anymore. Another big reason is self-censorship, of course. And there's also the fact that I'm sick and tired of announcing to the world that I'm sick and tired. And I don't like to write when I'm in a bad mood. Fuck, it's a wonder I write at all. You people should be grateful for what little you get.

So, last night I was talking with OddlyFamiliarGirl and the subject came up of the worst things we've ever done. She went first, and I told her that I was going to go pee and when I came back I'd tell her what my worst actions had been.

It wasn't too tough to come up with some very bad things. Maybe it wasn't as tough as I'd have liked, but oh well.

I'm basically a pretty good person. I keep saying that. Maybe eventually it will be believed. I get so fucking tired of being accused of lies and manipulations and cruelty.

But I digress.

And now I'm in a crappy mood, again, so I need to stop writing, again.

I don't have anything new for Halloween, so I'll just repost this old entry.

Halloween is in a couple of days, so I thought I'd write about the only "true" story of the supernatural that I've ever been a direct witness to.

My grandmother died on September 27, 1998 in a nursing home. Before she went to the home she'd lived in a relative's home for about a year. Before that, she'd been in the same house for nearly 60 years. That's the house I'm talking about here.

I grew up about 100 yards from MaMaw's house, and I spent a very large part of my childhood in it. With my parents working all the time my sisters and I spent nearly as much time in that old house as we did in our own. All of my cousins would come over to play pretty often. We had Christmas lunch there. From the time I was about 10 until I was 18 I spent at least two nights every week in that house.

No matter how much time I spent there, the house still scared the shit out of me sometimes.

It's just a creepy house. The upstairs in particular - many of the rooms have crudely-nailed panels blocking access to or from the attic. As a kid I was always afraid of those areas and would usually sneak past them while watching carefully for an arm, or a tentacle, or whatever I was most afraid of during that particular time in my life.

But enough background. I was a kid. It was an old house. It scared me.

A couple of days after my grandmother died my cousin Jeff and I went up to the old house to look around. Though nobody had lived there for over a year, there was still electricity and water since my uncle had been using it for storage.

This was the first time I'd been in the house since MaMaw had died, and it was the first time Jeff had been there in at least a few years.

So we went into the house and were immediately stunned by how warm it was. It must have been over a hundred degrees there. The furnace was going full-blast and the registers were almost too hot to touch.

I went to the thermostat against the kitchen wall and, sure enough, it was set at the absolute maximum. I turned it back down to about 50 or so and Jeff and I continued our explorations.

The next day I mentioned to another cousin (one who's father was using the old place for storage) that I'd lowered the thermostat.

He got a quizzical look on his face, and told me that there was no way that the furnace could have been going, that there was no way that the house could have been that warm.

You see, when my grandmother had moved out of the house, over a year earlier, they'd removed the propane tank.

I confirmed this rather alarming fact myself. The house had no gas supply. The furnace had no fuel. The pilot light was long dead.

So that's the story of the weirdest thing I've ever experienced. If I was better at writing about scary stuff I bet you'd be shitting your pants right about now.

I want to say something now.

But, I won't.

How many times have I said it before? A dozen? A hundred? How many times have I promised myself and promised those who care about me?

Too many.

I've been wrong every single time.

How many times have I wished it before? A thousand? A million? How many times have I lost hours and hours and days and days of sleep wishing?

Too many.

That wish, like its opposite, has always gone unfulfilled.

So, tonight, I'm not going to say it, and I'm not going to wish it.

I'm going to think it, though.

I think therefore...

For the moment at least.

So I was coming back into my building at work. Right when I started to open the door, a young girl screamed at the top of her lungs.

This was weird because I usually don't have quite that effect on young girls. Not quite.

After I'd had four or five heart attacks, and she'd probably peed her pants a little, she said that I'd startled her by going for the door at the same time as her.

At least that's what she said. So maybe it wasn't my hideous appearance.

I just didn't see how any good could come of it. I had no desire to be seen as yet another orbiter, engaged in stupid subtle pissing contests and territorial displays.

There's just no point anyway. The winner was preemptively decided a long time ago.

Anyone but Dave is the fucking winner, okay?

I get it. It took me a while, but I get it.

There are lines that I will no longer cross, and I'm drawing new lines all over the place. I think that my hope is that eventually these lines will stack to form a new wall around me.

Meanwhile, I've got this damn thing staring me in the face.

Yesterday, on facebook, a group was formed consisting of former journalspace.com members. When that site died a couple of years ago, those of us in that community were left to scatter. Now a bunch of them are on facebook and they've formed a new group. I'm not really sure why. Just to see who's still alive, I guess. And to find out what everyone's real names are. On JS almost everybody used handles instead of names. I went by barenada for one blog and anonymousme for another.

I joined the group yesterday, having been invited by NakedGirl. A few people remembered me, and I remembered a few more. Weird to see them posting by their real names. Anyway...

Found ya! Yay. Have to find out what happened to that relationship with the woman, who you desparately loved, but missed the chance with!

Now it's after 10:00. I'm up too late again. I have to get up at 5:00, after all.

Why am I still awake?

There's no reason that I can think of. I'm not even glaring at my phone tonight, so even that old standby of an excuse is no good.

Anyway...

(Deleted)

I should have gone. But, I didn't. But, I should have. Maybe I'll get another chance. If so, then I'm fucking going. I'll deal with the aftermath later, but I deserve a chance, no matter how slim, at a happy life.

I really do.

If I was going to write something now, as I wait for my clothes to finish washing so I can throw them into the dryer, if I was going to write something now, I guess I'd write about how sometimes I just get pissed about it all.

I'd write that I try to be reasonable. I really do. And I'd write that I know that it's both silly and futile to be angry about it. Much more understandable to simply be sad, but sad gets old after a while. Anger always seems new. Like it's something special. Something that might last, I might write.

But then I'd write about how it never lasts. About how I always catch myself and I feel guilty. Because I have no evidence that this was done to me as opposed to in spite of me. No evidence at all, unless you count the words of everyone on Earth. And I don't. Or at least I try not to.

If I was going to write something now, I'd probably go off on a real tear about things.

Good thing my laundry is done, so I can stop before I write anything.