stream of consciousness ii

i don’t care i don’t care i don’t care i barely even try to care i barely even think about it except to respond to respond ever briefly with some words with little meaning to poke situations to bring emotions out of others out of others into situations where i feel where i offer where i emote none. No emotion no connection no deep meaning nothing none. I see it they don’t see it I see it they must see it they see it eventually and probably feel hurt or maybe betrayed or maybe tricked or maybe reciprocated nothings and I guess it is tricky but why did they try why did they care why did they bother why why why? I don’t know I can’t answer I can only say that I don’t try I barely try I rarely seldom if ever try because I don’t care and why would I care why would I try why should I be sad to see them go? Small interactions with tiny people people I keep tiny because I keep them far away I keep them far away because I don’t want them any closer I don’t feel a draw I don’t feel those feelings that I feel I would have to feel if I wanted to turn a nothing into a sweet something: the alchemy of love of mutual intrigue that turns strangers into lovers into more than that much more. But I don’t feel it I don’t feel it I don’t feel it I don’t care and I respond I put out words out there out of politeness – no out of boredom out of self-interested intrigue out of the fascination of poking bears out of a need to see what will happen when I feel nothing and they feel something but they feel something based on the nothing I put out if there’s something somewhere at all. It’s a trick of the mind of the interpretation of thinking that response means closeness and ignoring that availability means desperation and a means of passing time. I pass time I pass time I watch it pass me by, and I respond out of habit out of need out of ways to pass the time to pass the time just passing time just watching it float by. I feel nothing for no one for no ones I have kept at the distance of my phone just one small text away but so far from meaning so far from emotion so far from caring so far from me. Does that make me anyword? No. It makes them make believe a possibility that I did my part I played my part in by showing up by responding to by doing nothing more. I go out of my way none of the time and I ask for much of the same. There must be such a lack of human connection facing kids these days, that they would cling to a half extended hand and assume it’s charmed to meet them.

interpreted definitions

‘Pride’ is (at simultaneous, but different times) the smile in the corner of an eye when appreciation is heard by well-meaning ears, and the refusal to compromise on a decision already past-decided as infallible fact. ‘Fate’ is an understanding of cause and effect. ‘Right’ is the opposite of ‘wrong’ and ‘left;’ ‘left’ is the opposite of ‘right’ and ‘stayed.’ ‘Poetry’ is a lesson gift-wrapped in metaphor. A ‘riddle’ is an inefficient question. ‘Parenting’ is the sadness one feels while watching her kittens choose to play with trash when they have real toys. ‘Nihilism’ is a circle that exists in no directions. ‘Loneliness’ is trying to be bearable enough to get grandfathered into people’s lives and not succeeding in over seven billion failures of various size and importance. ‘Equality’ is a theoretical goal; ‘equal opportunity’ is a practical goal. ‘Somethink’ is a briefly entertained thought. ‘But you have everything’ are words that should never found between quotation marks. ‘Interpreting’ is self-assured way of saying ‘misunderstanding.’  

3916

a sudden slant of light falls across a room of cobweb clutter and i am reminded of a meeting. of its insignificance replaced with light-etched memory. a sudden slant of light falls to reveal the volatility of a moment. a figment of evaporation leaving behind light-etched memory. almost tangible. the significance of it remains as a smile cornered on a deathbed in a room of cobweb clutter.

a dystopia in technicolor

Turning to Your Phone for a Better Night’s Sleep: The Truth behind Sleep Tracking Apps.  I wake up to sound bits blurring to form the gentle hum of white noise that lulls me from my slumber at approximately the optimal time according to my own personal sleep cycle. I reach for my phone. I don’t hit snooze. Not even once. Snoozing disrupts the sleep cycle in a way that does not help the body feel more rested, or so I think I’ve heard. My mind is active before my body so I allow myself five minutes to tap through Twitter, calendar, email, Instagram, Snapchat, texts, and Tinder to find a Local Muslim Teen Killed in Virginia, three reasons I don’t want to go to work today, The Secret to Selling Your Art Online, kittens and coffee art, 16 Mistakes It’s OK to Make in Your 20s, an unsaved number saying asking do u still have adderall, and an unknown guy asking are we still on tonight. Old news, sigh, delete, cute and please, done, yes, if nothing else comes up before then. I try to grasp the last shreds of the last night’s dreams, but they’re nowhere to be found. I don’t think I dream as much as I used to as a kid. This is good for productivity in waking life, or so I think I might have heard.

the fluid dynamics of language

Last text message stamps that turn from time to day to date watching fiction fabricate where love profession became kiss-sealed fate. Determining if terminal velocity has been accelerated passed at a change in change in distance greater than gravity while existing unknowing with respect to and with no respect for

space. A little bit too tipsy to the point of topsy turning. A little bit too little: a tiny chunk: a minuscule nibble. A finger in to test the waters, the temperature of misplaced tea. The temperature of a tepid day with higher than bearable levels of humidity for individual hairs to stay put in organized chaos. Chaos so chaotic it can only be described by a law, the second one, it’s fundamental thermodynamic the heating the cooling trying to contain to construct to solidify the abstract into the concrete so concrete so rigid so indifferent unemotional.

proof of concept

It still feels like 2016. It still feels like the most important year of my life. It still feels like the end of my childhood. It’s driving me mad it is it is it is. I still want to talk to him and I’m wondering why I am sitting here not talking to him and talking to this person and to that person and enjoying my life but still but still still weeks and months and security lost later still wanting to talk to him. Still thinking about him constantly. Consistently? Repeatedly. Reminded. Still wishing him well in my head in my head always in my head and waiting waiting waiting for him to tell me for him to reach out to me and tell me he’s doing well and tell me he felt my well wishes and tell me he held that feeling in a place in his heart until it warmed him until it cleared away cobwebs until it helped him realize he could be doing well because someone wants too much so much so badly so desperately for him to be alright – more than alright: wonderfully – because he is wonderful and I am terrific and I am doing terrifically as I sit here sit here sit here and think always thinking always thinking about him and wondering what he’s doing and hoping it’s well – more than well: wonderfully. Because he is wonderful and I am terrific and I am happy now but still so sad. So sad but happy with myself. So satisfied but wanting more. So conflicted but existing peacefully in so many states. I don’t know what I want right now because I want nothing I want something I want someone but I’m not as caught up in my emotions as I used to be. I let them flutter let them fall watching them as they crash to the floor like a teardrop like the loudest scream like the silence that rings out as time stops having meaning. I do miss the feeling of being passionately in love with a person who exists like a concept – like more than just an individual with individual problems and insecurities and interests and dislikes – both external and internal and expanding – expanding and filling the chest I leaned my head on and felt so very much in love with so very much in love with a person like a concept like a too-good-to-be-true like a Form. The chest with the message printed on it – the reminder to live the best life possible – the reminder that this will all end and you will see it in slow motion as it ends before your eyes and just out of the reaches of your grip – a reminder of a dream a twenty-two year old had and was fighting every day to turn into a reality to turn a concept to a proof.  The constant struggle of self-definition that is classified by experts as anxiety. The constant struggle of being too in a head too in a head too in a head where else does one go where else is there where else could I be? Explained external complaints becoming. I’ll hold them deeply and let them devour me. I’ll change the subject: I’ll make it all about me. He’ll hold them deeply and let them devour him. It’s all about me as I sit here and I think about what it’s like for it to be all about someone else for someone else who is making their own decisions based on all the information they are able to contain all that they can bear to bear witness to to carry to be burdened with. It is difficult to live with your eyes open. I’ve turned a blind one a few times a few times maybe too many but it’s all relative based on other outcomes of other choices that I will never be able to choose because time is linear and this is my path. I’ve turned blind eyes I’ve ignored what is obvious. It’s fear it’s all fear and I’m terrified and terrible and taking turns to shaded places where it’s too dark too dark far too dark to see. A blind eye in a dark room in the isolation of a mind a mind inside of a head that is too active too panicked too scared to believe that there is more outside. More than a concept in a head leaning on a dream written on a chest.