This is one of those nights when the world seems smaller, where the rain seems as if it will swallow the corners of my soul. Every last bit of it. And it’s also one of these movie scene nights. I’ve got my coffee, my notebook, and my cigarettes. Sad little girl, all alone at a coffee shop on a Friday night. Where are her friends? Her family? Her lovers? Jesus, don’t get her started on lovers. Theres a fair amount of screwing. And a fair amount of screwing over. But what are lovers for, you ask. “For screwing,” she’ll consent. “Who want’s a lover you actually have to love?”
Maybe I’m just bitter.
Responsibility. I’ve got it. I’ve got the weight of the world in the palm of my hand. I’m at this point where things are about to change, and I want to turn and run. I’ve wanted this responsibility, this self assured freedom for so long, but now that I’ve got it. And I don’t want it. Maybe this is my disorder screaming for release?
“Inability to sustain stable self image, relationships, or goals.”
It’s so incredibly easy to pretend to be well, to act like I’m a normal girl, with normal ambitions, but after a while the world begins to be so mundane, so very cliche’, and my skin begins to itch. And I begin to fuck things up just to have something to do, to make everything a little less ideal.
I am feeling very alone. I suppose this is what happens when you start ruining relationships for your own sick , subconscious amusement. And you know exactly what you’re doing, you’re just too consciously weak to stop it. Friend, lovers, or nothing, and John Mayer put it. Oh, if I could just stop blurring lines, start following rules, and keep my fucking pants on and lips closed. If only, if only.
I wish everything was simple. But when things get simple, get easy, I have this compulsion to fuck everything up. And I manage it pretty well, if I do say so myself.
I am in love with love. I’m one of those fruit nuts, one of those god damned dreamers. I wonder, “Why must one conform to society? Why can’t society conform to me? Why must we conform at all? Why can’t I fucking walk around naked where ever the hell I feel like it? Why can’t I? WHY?!” I don’t. It won’t. We don’t. I can. I will. Oh, I will. In ten minutes I will not agree with this, will avoid breaking out, and will curl into my shell and bitch some more. Because this is what I do. Revolutionary without a backbone. That’s me.
Walt Whitman spent his entire life cataloging his stream of thought, his life’s work is what he called it. It was a pile of insignificant crap. But, the true beauty of was the insignificance. I appreciate this because I do not have the capability to stand in awe of mundane, every day shit. He was blissfully happy, it seems, with fish eggs and grass and I envy him. My mind works like a movie where everything is fantastic and over the top. The drama is suffocating, but poignant at times. The romance as trashy as a soap opera yet as addictive as good conversation. Everything I do is wrought with emotion, laden with complexity, and bursting at the seams with a sweet eagerness to taste and breathe in life. Yet, satisfaction eludes me.
“You are young,” they tell me. “You will find your love, your adventure.” They also neglect to mention the insufferable amount of patience it requires. I am impatient selfish, rude, and I drive like a bat out of hell. I do not have time for waiting. I am ready. Right this second.
While I’m waiting, I’ll probably have to pee. Waiting makes me want to pee.
This is my stream of thought. Something you’d compile into a life work, right? I don’t have the writing style, the patience, or depth of thought to be a writer. And my spelling is atrocious. I wouldn’t mind scribbling away for hours in my underwear, subsisting off of ramen and fried eggs.
Life would be simple that way.
