Some days you just need to shut yourself up. You shut yourself up because you care too much – about everything and everyone and you know that when that happens, you lose so much of yourself.
So much, you want to hit yourself with a metal chair over and over and over and watch yourself deform into a gross set of skin and bones.
Some days you need to stop feeling because every day is both a reduction and an overcompensation. For some possibly self-obsessed reason, people always seem to hurt you even when they’re not.
Some days you hope too and it destroys you.
Someone will show up one day.
You dont think they would, you dont think anyone would.
But they do, I promise that they do.
And when they do, there wouldnt be enough words.
Someone asked me if I would write of such love.
“I will take good care of you”
She had not heard that before. She’s been too busy taking care of herself, of other people. She didn’t realise that that was all she needed – someone else to hold the reigns for a couple of minutes.
I wanted to test the perimeters again. I have this insubstantial thinking that if I get to go through this once, if I can just hold up till the night ends, then maybe the perimeters of my anxiety would incoherently expand.
Only it didn’t. I guess I should have taken the hint from my hand trembling just as we went inside. The hand I tried my best to hide. Now I’m stuck in wait for the terrible to take place.
But there is something about careless crowds in loud music and bright lights filling glasses of gin.
Im glad I went but I ain’t ever clubbing again – post anxiety is not worth it
I guess I’m not a very good person.
Because aren’t good people surrounded by loved ones?
To be in marvellous joy and laughter, together,
To lie against the comfort of an elder’s smile?
I thought our good memories of past were disgraced.
I thought i was doing something right
i thought i was saving them – our moments.
but maybe when we chase for righteousness,
we forget what it is that makes us good.
we stop seeing the worth in our movements – in any movement.
we fail and we fail and we make things worse
and i am a bad person for making things worse.
i am a bad person for closing it all down.
and as much as i’d like to say it –
that i chose wrong –
what would be the point?
And I would say be absolutely careful with the wrong kind of choices.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who grew up in a world of science with a head filled with words and a house full of teachers. Every one of them wanted a doctor or a lecturer out of her. And she listened. Because she was good at listening to people.
She was also good in school. She loved going to school. She took so much pleasure in writing narratives and pouring chemicals into glass beakers. It fascinated her – the reaction between certain molecules, the change in colour, the product of purification. It fascinated her – the meaning behind words strung together, the subjectivity of subtext, the necessity of purpose.
She loved them all – both chemistry and literature. But of course, nobody said she could be an editor or a publisher or a writer. How could she? The world doesn’t need them, they said. How could she? All she was getting were the lowest grades. And she knew she was settling because she thought that sometimes the thing you love isn’t the thing you’re good at.
Then it came – letters on printed paper and everything turned backwards.
“Let’s face it, you were never really good in chemistry”
And they were right.
“It’s impossible to get an A for literature”
And they were wrong.
And the little girl didn’t understand.
She was so happy. So very very happy. In that instant she couldn’t care less about any other grade. Her words got her an A. She got an A. She was so happy she didn’t give herself any time to grieve over the one thing she always thought she was good at.
Because sometimes we question if the thing we love was just a construction of what the world was throwing at you.
Now the little girl does not know.
I used to believe in dreams,
Now I am who I am
And I hate it.
I dont know if I believe anymore.
I dont know if anyone else does?
I refuse to believe in this reduction.
But maybe that’s just it –
Maybe we are only alive because we exist in someone’s memory. Our existence is only dependent in the minds of other people. Being remembered and seen and heard gives us the basis for meaning. In a hundred years when we’re dead and everyone that knew us dies – that will be true death.
So Shakespeare isnt dead. He knew he wouldnt die and he wrote poems about people so that they too will live on. And i think that is truly poetic.
How alive am i?
It is as clear as day,
However more obvious could it be?
What only waits is displacement,
and afters, and leftovers,
And whatever that is left, in
I’m a little disheartened and lost today.