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.
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. I still want to talk to him. 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.
an attempt to be in a moment in a moment that is passing at present in the present in an instant not wasting time not wasting now. an attempt to be in a moment in a moment becoming past remaining concentrating on present actions present rest. at attempt to be in a moment but thought fluttering to the future to later just some hours just some point later today. an attempt to be in a moment but i am waiting to answer a text i am waiting to have a meeting i am waiting to get more work i am waiting to have something to do in the present other than write about an attempt to be in a moment because in this moment i am not focused on anything other than my attempt at being in this moment and in a way that is being in a metamoment which is kind of sort of maybe worse than not being active in a moment because it is actively talking about trying to be active in a moment without actually being in that moment or doing the things i should be doing at this present point in time. the present is the only time that exists outside of memory and assumption yet past and future are more often discussed. to talk about the present is to talk about current actions which is not done not really which is kind of strange yet makes perfect sense if present time is only truly present when shrunk down to infinitesimal beats approaching nothings.
Sharons always get broken up with for doing nothing wrong. I think compatibility is more about how you like things than which things you like. 25 must be the age where older men no longer find it creepy to hit on you. Birds fly north for summer, and doesn’t that make them fair-weather friends? I want to make up words when I talk to my kids. That’ll be fun. Actually, nevermind, that would be kind of cruel. A lot of clean-looking, older lesbians we’re having today, huh? The distinct feeling of being in a boring store for a long time with my mom and trying to be patient but honestly feeling like we will never leave the store. I think I was brainwashed into thinking that drugs are worse than they are. A poem that starts describing someone in beautiful, flowery, abstract ways, and then gets more and more base and declarative. The time of Kevin James has ended. I am powered by my desire to get people to see how ridiculous they are when they’re trying to behave how they think normal humans should behave. Tinder journalism. Sitcoms are people embarrassing themselves to a laugh track. She had the face only a bartender could love. What if there just was no Beyoncé and she was actually an alien robot Beyoncé? I could literally be doing anything right now and this is what I’m doing. I no longer support pen advertisements. Was human evolution the process of becoming better communicators? Now we can say so many things that people have developed all of these precautions against having to deal with other people’s dramas. Being irrational is usually seen as a call for help, but what if you just like being irrational and want to be left alone with your irrationality? Writing words on social media isn’t doing anything but annoying people who otherwise wouldn’t have to listen to you. We are probably, as a society, too bombarded with opinions. I am inherently bothered by “Best of” collections; they seem inauthentic. Life Goal: Corner Treadmill Video Market. My cat meowed at me but I think he was just trying to say hey. You ever wish something mildly bad happened to you? Like, you wake up and have a flat tire? Or you twist an ankle this way you can tell people you twisted your ankle? Yeah, me neither. My kitten sometimes annoys me and I wonder if that makes me a terrible person. I really hope I look good in hats. I kind of want to go for a drive and see where I ended up, but I am scared of actually ending up nowhere and with no story to tell. I want more things to be life altering experiences. Life altering experiences probably only happen when life needs to be altered. Are goals things you want to have done, but haven’t gotten around to doing yet? I worry that don’t acknowledge 80% of my thoughts. That is giving fuel to the “most statistics are made up” fire, but I am 100% alright with that. I don’t think enough people are introspective, but I don’t know if the world would be better if they were. I am sweet in my head, but not cloying. Seesaw is a funny word because it probably was named because at a height, one person sees, and then, when the other rises, the first person saw. If I kept talking forever, in two dimensions I would probably circle, in three, I’d spiral. I think the most romantic thing ever would be to get the coordinates of where you met someone tattooed on your body, and I will be severely disappointed if I meet my soulmate online and can’t make this happen. Pizza.
The cadence of your voice when you’re pausing planning trying not to say what you’re not sure if you mean. The furrow of your brow as you try to turn feelings something primal something pure into language unadulterated unobscured. The words the sounds the ebbs and flows the release of tension the rise of tension while standing still standing just pausing for response. Waiting for interpretation my misinterpretation my wants my needs obscuring what you set out to define. My failures your failures the failure of words to describe to convey what’s floating freeform in two minds trying their best their very best to be one in understanding: to align.
I resent all of the adjectives given to a child me: boxed thought-that-counts considerations picked out and wrapped with bows. I resent all of the weight put on a child me by some words said by some person people some friends family some strangers well-intended but controlling in their meaning what defined me who i am all i could ever hope to be. Am I smart? I’m so smart. Such smarts so smart and pretty too. A powerful dynamic mixed with drive such drive so driven and going going gone but never really there. I set out to live a life lived by people granted such fine adjectives given so many hopes and dreams of what I’m told I am of what I could possibly potentially aim to be. There was such guilt so much heavy guilt in a childlike version of me: a guilt for being sad while having all of these things for having these things these gifts this promise this position these chances these chances I’ve wasted am wasting redefining who I see. When I look into my own eyes when I look into a mirror: some person’s past mistakes some person just reflecting. Thinking of all of the adjectives all of those compliments well-meaning well-received but misinformed that decided my image in my mind of what i should want could want might try to be. I see myself standing there now still standing but now so small. Stripped of adjectives and definitions just trying always trying to make some self make sense.
I am waiting for the part of the story where the title is explained with some big picture summary: some explicit statement purpose governing: black words on white pages: close up, not grey faded (blurry eyed and far away). I am waiting watching waiting waving wavy ups and downs – down and down and drowning coming up for gasps of air – held under diving under sinking settling then rising up and up until finally: some surface breaking eye to eye with the ebbing tides: just pieces just some ashes taking form and taking flight forgetting unsung tragedies of unsolid shifting surfaces.
The skies are clear: I see it now: the far out stars: we’re under heaven. Traveling unraveling: some Brownian motion pathway: flittering far down below so far beneath the dawning light. But the skies are clear: they’re blue: the shortest wavelength traveling photons can will use. On Occam’s razor’s edge: the simple path is sharp and stinging. Shrink down small enough to not be sliced: the path is paved with mountain ranges. The shortest path, the lighted way, the lessons learned, the faces saved. No curving lines to final points: no question marks signaling a choice.
You look me eye to eye and you try and you try to let my hopes down carefully where i am still left standing. You’re holding on to letting go: grasping for some final straws: my fatal flaws our problems: the absence of enough being as it is defined: as enough. my white flag is waving saying: let’s fight on let’s go and if your burden is too heavy: my back is yours to break, but the guilt in your eyes is heavy too: the guilt of decisions too certainly made. But am i certain? I am certain: the shortest path is clear: fly with me towards the sun: there’s no use waiting here.