poor little rich

girl
I wonder if I'm being trained,not by god, who is emphatically nonexistent (just like daddy)but by another boy, to be fine by myself, playing the piano for two hours a day I wonder if I can train myself or if I will ever stop thinking about my father. if i will ever stop thinking about boys. about jesus. about everything. i want to turn my brain off. it wouldn't have been that bad if he hadn't started talking; coming into my room just to talk and then two weeks later a junkie. that really hurt the most. its when I stopped being able to write. there wouldn't be a hole if he hadn't loved us once but not anymore. loved me once. I wouldn't always be trying to fill it up by another boy I wonder if I will always consider myself empty. no, I wonder if I will ever consistently feel full, if I have to keep training myself. well, of course. I would go crazy and take everyone down with me if not, but i am starting to doubt my strength for the harder things, going home to the family and just being, just living, without fighting all that pain. now that i am trying i am starting to doubt myself. i will be like rich or kerry leigh; i have never actually tried to stay put in one place, in one place, for so long. i have never seen the reasoning behind putting all your eggs in one basket, all your resources into being one person, i am just like all those people i hate and i will make poor decisions for the rest of my life. is it true?
nono, that was just a fantastical moment, i am not really scared of that. i am scared of it, but i am also proud of myself for being able to cure my own boredom cure my thoughts cure my head cure myself of myself for two hours on the piano. i am proud of myself for feeling perfectly fine when i wake up in the morning. i am proud of these things and that other stuff does not really matter, not right now, in the constant moment before the asteroid hits the earth.
its so scary to be here with the light on on all of this. i wake up in the morning feeling relieved that i can live for eight hours without thinking about that one thing i have been thinking about, whatever boy, toy, or characteristic it may be. the tibetans are always late.