Franz Kafka, The Diaries Of Franz Kafka: 1910-1913

—Solo—

III

It changed into Conan, Leno, Letterman, Stewart— all the late night shows wanted her. Even good Morning America, wanted Angelina on their show. And for what? GIA had emerged as an overnight success. HBO clearly had executed nicely, as did she—a Golden Globe nomination; and that was nothing to sneeze at. Matters were truly starting to pick up voltage with her career. Plenty of new projects sat on the horizon. Some scripts and films Angelina had fawned over for a couple of years, unsure if it honestly it matched her. Lisa Rowe; Girl Interrupted, actually was one that seemed to suit her quite well. But then came such movies as the Bone Collector, Pushing Tin, Gone in 60 Seconds— all of which made her uneasy. some of the “potential” cast participants were all stars she had watched on the large screen. Idolized even. Now, to be performing alongside them...become like an in depth fever hallucination of some type.

She and Julia acknowledged their way to the cramped crowd, that waited for them outside the hotel. Angelina was continually dazed to visualize fans—actual people who were there for her. It was insane to her. Her free hand fished the packet of cigarettes out her pocket, fitting to light one—then the bustle begun. Shouts for autographs, pictures, the whole nine. Angelina pleasantly submitted, satisfied and starstruck herself. With the unlit limp smoke in her mouth she marked a few autographs.

“Angelina!”

“Angelina! Are you and Johnny Miller back together?”

“Angelina! Are you going to do the movie with Denzel Washington!”

Going through as many autographs as she could, Angelina shook off the questions. “I don't really know...” She wasn't insensitive or mean--honestly, she didn't know. With the last autograph, she granted the person who wanted a kiss. That certainly revved up the crowd even more, causing both she and Julia and rest of their beefed up security team to laugh.

Waving to the rest, Angelina got into the SUV, buckled in, and lit her cigarette. Julia looked on with an unpleasant expression. She hated cigarettes. The fading brunette hair, actress raised an eyebrow as her lungs inhaled the nicotine. “Find me something better and I'll quit on the spot.”

Some of that statement was truthful. Angelina had done well for herself not to take drugs over the past two days—not that she could. With the Golden Globe nomination, the squeeze and the end of the film, she didn't have time to do her extracurricular business. And quite honestly she didn't miss it. That wasn't to say that Angelina hadn't taken up quite the chainsmoking—habits, but everything was a working progress.

Angelina always came away from meetings with certain executives emotional. Otherwise, there would have been no particular reason for her to be at a hotel. It wasn't in a negative sense she felt emotional- but a sense in which she was actually doing THIS. This—meaning: really picking scripts, having producers, directors, writers actually want her. After all, she had signed on to do the next few films. Taking the cigarette from her lips, she let the smoke escape through the crack in the window; a smirk of satisfaction rested on her lips as she did.

The car ride had only been several minutes. A quiet ride between she and Julia—no need to really exchange any words. As the SUV pulled into her driveway of her darkened house, Angelina cursed softly noting and perceiving she hadn't left a light anywhere in the house. She only hoped Yogi— hadn't caused any damaged or had been damaged himself. Yogi, was her new bestowed upon her puppy! Her brother James had randomly given him to her. Now, the four legged cutie was apart of her life. It was dark and the klutz she could be...it wasn't a good set up, as she made her up the steps of her porch. With her purse slung over her shoulder, shopping bags nibbled at her fingertips, and her journals pressed against her chest the actresses jogged, carefully up the rest of the stairs to her front door.

Most of the time Angelina wouldn't bother to leave the doors locked. Even though safety precautions warranted her too. It made things easier when meetings, filming—ect ran late. Her body made it through the door on cue as the horn of the car, signaled a goodbye. The shopping bags fell to the floor, her purse slipped down her arm, and of course the journals in her hands began faltering as well.

Before long she could hear the deep pounding padding steps, of her eager doggy Yogi. In a blink of an eye the lovable chocolate Labrador—ran upon her. Tail wagging, eyes large with anticipation, and barking as if Angelina have been gone for hundreds of years. Bending down to meet the adorable canine halfway. She scratched him, patting his fur, and permit the four legged animal to lick her face a bit. “Been a good boy? Hm? Yes? Yes!”

She was answered with more speedy barks and licks of affection. Regaining her standing position, Angelina and Yogi traveled past the dim living room, over the two little steps and into the kitchen. Out stretching one arm, Angelina flicked on the kitchen light and was met with the white affluent, peaceful ambiance of the kitchen fully. Most of the cooking contraptions, the actress had failed to use— her attention span for cooking was anything less than bearable.

Small chuckles echoed from her lips as she fished around the lower cabinets trying to find a snack. Yogi, budded his head against her leg— almost asking for one himself. After grabbing a few simple crackers for herself, dog treat for the pup, Angelina pranced her way to her bedroom.

The lanky actress had wolfed down the crackers fast. Now she became situated in a heated, candlelit, door closed and locked, bubble bathtub. Her pale skin soaking in the sweet lavender body wash, she so graciously added to the water— along with some honeysuckle bath bombs. Angelina adored bubble baths, mainly after long days which includes one like today. As the soothing, muscle relaxing home spa like treatment was needed—to was the Rose Gold, Pinot wine that sat half empty on the rim of the sleek porcelain tub. In the beginning stages of her soak she had, nursed the wine. Baby sips, little nips. Then, grabbing the glass by the base she downed the wine. Rich in taste, smooth on the route, leaving a satisfied almost drool expression upon her face.

Raising her head a bit, damp strings of her hair sticking to her neck. Her misty eyes viewed the steam from the water—it was gratifying to see. Angelina stuck one arm out from under the water, watching enticingly close, as droplets fell from her thin fingertips. A soft “Mmm.” Rang from the depths of her throat, and past her lips. This was bliss. This was truly a peace maker to her overactive mind. Overactive life in some areas.

The weekend—

💕

— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra

I have to have faith in myself. I must have something absurd and irrational to cling to. Stupid and silly, yet I fully comprehend it. I'm destroying myself with worry about the future. I'm exhausting myself thinking about the past. in the present? Standing here, unsure of myself. Walking while blind... It's almost as if I'm a wind-up toy with a purpose. Would I hear myself if I shouted?

Not the rose petal anymore. Just a leaf. By my own thoughts, I have been crushed and malfunctioning. Suffocated and plagued by oneself. I'm no longer disillusioned, but instead having mental dizziness. In my head stewing. Then halt. Then halt. Yet how? Breathe. Exhale and inhale. The day will be new tomorrow. I've come this far, and I'm confident that I can continue.

Furthermore, it lingers like a razor at the tip of my tongue all the time. I start to feel dangerous as my skin starts to warm up.

Angry without being asked, sparked, and ignited. To disregard prudence for no reason. Every chuckle that finds me does me harm.

I may destroy my sense of realization, production, and functional consciousness and never get over its loss. And why should I? Because I want to taste the blood of a thousand years on the tip of my tongue. I want to develop a conscious phobia of my own sinister secrets. But I am unable. Thus, I won't.

In writing, I seek the ultimate validation from me. Not from others. I seek the validation from my past. Are I a reflection of my past self? How many candles, meditations, and cleansings do I need?

Are I doomed to forever fall flat against the marks I've made for myself? Am I not entitled to the desire for truth? What's been placed upon me, is my own burden. My own weight. I am fighting and resisting me. How do I let go?

In this case...I am the lesson. In this case...I am the bridge scorned, for believing that at such a time, I could ever feel open enough to have. Have? Have what? Even I am confused. Hell, I've burned myself twice as poster and imposter for what can be. In this case...I am the bridge scorned.

Thus I write. And I'll keep writing until my fingers are numb. Until my eyes grow tired. Until my mouth becomes dry. Until my limbs ache, my heart stops, and my mind shuts down until I am not there anymore. But I will write. My sin, my success, my tragedies, and the unknown that surrounds me.

And my soul... aches.

- Sylvia Plath, from the 'Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath'

8-1

New month, new reason: the beginning of a new rhythm for all the seasons. To the tune of nothing and everything. Will it bring more than a small amount.

Little, little, and little to none. The sweetness of the past will diminish but never be swindled since it roots the world in which we live.

More will follow. There is still much to learn and questions to be resolved.

Angel.

It's my mind... It's my mind. I'm drowning. I'm drowning... Please help me. Someone help me. Can I help me?

𝐸𝑚𝑏𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠, 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉𝑒𝑠.

𝐻𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠, 𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒.

𝐻𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑠𝒉𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑥𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

𝒉𝑖𝑔𝒉 𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑐𝒉. 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑠 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝒉.

𝐿𝑖𝑝𝑠 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑡𝒉𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑠.

𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑒.