witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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Iím on the plane again, staring with my nose pressed against the plastic window and musing at the highways that get smaller and smaller and coil tighter and tighter the further we ascend. Iím happy to be leaving Calgary; at this altitude it looks like nothing more than a desolate landscape with a beige complexion. A utopia built for hillbillies dressed as ambitious neoconservatives.

Every time I board the plane, I canít help but drop into this feeling of complete and utter insignificance. Weíre a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of everything that exists, and most of the time, entirely unaware of how mundane and inconsequential our lives seem in the greater scope of things. But to a degree, we have to be.

I smell like weed and the ashes of a campfire. Why did you drive down to see me? Why did I agree?

The boys in my life have become interchangeable. I mistake them for one another. Call them by the wrong names. Unintentionally reveal memories I didnít share with them. And as much as I canít tell them apart, they simply just canít tell.

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7:15 a.m. - Sunday, May. 24, 2009

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