Nothing is alright; but what’s raw has always kept me away; what’s true has always turned me off; I have built myself armor against what’s real.
I have gotten very accomplished at pretense.
This doesn’t make me anyone; this makes me, as far as I can tell, as honest as I can be; this makes me part of everyone.
And yet, instead of camaraderie, all things are revealed, as with a timid knock, to have been hollow.
at the end of everything what it turned out to be was that I wanted to kiss everyone and let go of this the very idea that I was close or closed or held or holding–
at the end of everything it was only I that could occupy the space, it was only me here after all– lips left at last alone but with stories and ideas and memories of joining with others for moments and moments that disappeared with every breath–
it’s nothing, after all. if even I could breathe life in, it must be easy– there doesn’t have to be a reason.
sometimes reason was when our skin touched, when you & I weren’t afraid to share the space between, and that’s all there could or all there had to be.
in the yards and yards of rippling fabric we can be open and soft, even alongside the frost that lives in our veins here– we are– we were– always going to be creeping to something frozen, and even when I was warm among you I did not believe that this would last–
even the stars in the sky will someday die– but to fade away is to have been, and to have been was once to be and there is nothing really but being and the warm gold air in the summer and the endlessness of blue when it’s over.
Sometimes when I feel like this I need to watch movies I’ve seen before where everyone has feelings they’re allowed to show so I can just cry about what happens in the movie and stop thinking about not feeling alive unless I feel alone.
In this movie right now Kristen Bell is running away from her real job to live at home and be a lifeguard instead. Sometimes I think about being a teenager and whatever else I used to be, with a bedroom that felt like mine and a series of bookmarks on my browser that mattered and occupied my time. Comics on the internet and books that were anything. The sun and the wind and the kind of thing that is in front of you.
Peace and quiet and open air.
In the last one Jennifer Grey wore peasant tops and bathing suits outside like it was all just fine. I sort of don’t believe that’s possible.
Passion is not something I have time for. I have too much and not enough time for anything. I’m letting myself be so hackneyed and cliche now. Soon I won’t just be some of what I hate, but all of it. I don’t want you to forget about me.
WordPress would have me amplify these posts. I don’t have the heart to tell it that no one wants me to amplify the whiny poems I write on the internet. I mean. I don’t, so.
at least when she cries
she has something to do.
staying busy is probably the best thing you can do,
but at least when it isn’t, you can kill the people
who lied to you and said it would be.
I’m sitting here so fatigued with my own line of questioning. The screen goes to sleep way too fast. I’m going to make myself late. How can I send something to those people when I can’t trust my own words to say what I mean? How can I mean what I say when I can’t say what I mean?
Maybe I’m too mean. Maybe that’s why.
Pieces are falling out of me and soon I am going to crumble and I’m already so tired of writing checks to stay alive. I’m running out of time.
I walked on the beach like that, once.
At least, one time of which there is photographic evidence.
All of these people with their shining sand and their long legs practically dangling their perfect feet, skin that’s like bronze except it looks warmer, like if you trapped heat in the shapes of girls; the hairs on their heads come together like a glowing swirl of oil paint, designed to reproduce the wind or the sea or something else you can’t conceive or shut up about. That’s all there is.
My body doesn’t produce freckles.
In the early morning I awaken six or seven times because I know I’ve set at least that many alarms to fend off or (probably) exacerbate my paranoia. Finally, I drag my possible legs out of bed for keeps.
The morning is abbreviated because I’ve let it become that way, but still I give the self-that-is-mine in the mirror a moment of contemplation about my choice to wear a cheetah print bra with zebra print underpants.
Is that okay?
It doesn’t bear thinking about. I move on. A day of going and being and returning and being. There are no cheetahs here, even sunbeams are rare. Sometimes I think the house-cat looks full of stars, when the light catches the dust motes caught in her fur.
But then again, what do I know. My underwear’s probably been chasing itself around all day.
It’s just that it’s stupid, is all.
The whole thing.
It’s designed, obviously, by people who think it should be this way, which isn’t exactly fair to those of us who think it should be, like, a different way.
It maddens me that I can’t put words on a page, literal or metaphorical (the page, I mean, since there isn’t actually a literal “page” right now that I’m writing on here [except that it’s become the common vernacular to call a webpage a page so actually this parenthetical nightmare is all for nought]) and feel like there’s anything happening as a result of it. It’s maddening. I’m maddened.
The cat’s making a ruckus in her litterbox. I’ve made the bold choice to put her litterbox behind a door, so I live in constant fear of the unknown. The “unknown” being, what the heck she’s doing in there that’s making such a ruckus.
Is it boring, for me to talk about my cat like this? Am I a boring person?
In a state of light despair, I take to the information superhighway– a very smart young man once told me that a person must “take responsibility for [her] clichés” and not insert quotation marks around them, so I’m not going to do that, though I will place quotation marks around his sensible, articulate advice (obviously) since I have no business taking responsibility for that– hunting and pecking like a frustrated chicken for that most elusive of destinations, a freakin’ job that doesn’t suck already.
That’s not really fair because I make it sound like my job right now really sucks, and actually my job doesn’t suck all that bad. That said, I probably don’t want to do it forever and I’ll never be as young as I am right now and what I really want is to follow my passion and become– what? A writer.
Yes. Because I am so excellent and this and I am enjoying myself so much right now. The words course through my body and out through my fingertips like wet butter. They make brief pit stops to put air in their tires and urinate in my brainpan.
The problem seems to be that every job looks awful. I sound terribly privileged, and I am. I have the luxury of a current job. I have had not-that-luxury before and I understand that, you know. When a person is unemployed or underemployed, said person is slightly less likely to be a malcontent and judgy nutface about the options presented before her. Or him.
So, yes, I confess to being that most odious product of the middle class, who believes that making a living has anything to do with following a dream. Even worse than that– somewhere deep in the bowels of my heart-intestines, I actually believe I’m entitled to have a dream, and that figuring out what it is and then attempting to achieve it is something I ought to be given time and freedom and (what? seriously?) money (the worst!) to do.
I know, I know. Blah, blah, blah, Millenials are the worst people in the world.
At least I didn’t blog about Nicktoons though, right?
Also who gives a crap, because no one is reading this so whoever I’m addressing these questions to doesn’t even properly exist in this particular (small) (scrunchy) (sort of reddish orange) constructed reality that is “the blog post I’m writing right now and all of the very manys of people who are taking time out of their busy snacks to read it.”