I love my depth perception! =)
I grow exasperated with newscasters. With those smooth-skinned old men with clean gray hair and clean blue eyes. They read their cues with professional indifference. Never a flicker of emotion crosses those sterilized eyes.
I am tired of learning new ways the world has mangled itself.
I am tired of melodrama, too. I am tired of constantly trying to fix things when the headway I can make is no more perceptible than the shifting of liquid window glass.
I wish I could fix everything.
I wish I had three wishes.
I wish someone would grant them.
I think I am gradually discovering that I am very good at frequently saying the wrong thing all together,at embarrassing myself, at not noticing a potentially problematic way something I say could be interpreted until it is already too late. I wish I could get into the habit of being excruciatingly reticent; it seems like that would be simpler. I tend to end up on the outskirts of things by habit, you see. It is so hopeless to feel like all I can do is watch and mouth advice that is both futile and annoying--it is like talking to people on television screens.
I want to be alone for a while, I think, with shadows and wisps of dreams. Isolation, dear Elliot, pushes past everything, I suppose.
But it's all right. I wake up in the morning with crescents of night time under my eyes, because I never do really fall asleep. And just then I am too tired to think properly and care about things. Gradually, I wake up and become more emphatically involved in the world, until by the evening I am experiencing this sensation that is like being thrown unexpectedly into free fall-I feel like I am about to reach a breaking point or simply the ground; I am overcome and nothing makes sense. It is so overwhelming, in fact, that just before I try to fall asleep, I force myself to become completely apathetic. I give up on being productive and go to sleep and wander through surreal dream sequences which are arranged like Slaughterhouse Five.
Then I wake up and do it all over again.
The poetry makes the repetition worthwhile; even if it is the only thing that does. I decided, some indistinct time ago, that in the end I will not really care if my life was tragic or wonderful, so long as it was poetic.
That is why it is going to be all right.
So I wrote this. There is proof, solid proof; exhibit A in the court room. But I probably won't look at this ever again. If I do, it will probably disgust me. I will probably realize that I have, once again, been much less articulate, precise, and coherent than I wanted to. I am already certain that by now I sound thoroughly, aimlessly self pitying and such; but for the record, I'm happy, now. Sitting here on this uncomfortable wooden chair, the satisfaction of incompletely articulating nebulous nonsense has cheered me up completely.
And also, it is snowing outside. So I might not even need the apathy tonight; might not even be a no good junkie of giving up every night at eleven o'clock. Happily ever after until tomorrow morning, and that's it, I guess.
I am tired of learning new ways the world has mangled itself.
I am tired of melodrama, too. I am tired of constantly trying to fix things when the headway I can make is no more perceptible than the shifting of liquid window glass.
I wish I could fix everything.
I wish I had three wishes.
I wish someone would grant them.
I think I am gradually discovering that I am very good at frequently saying the wrong thing all together,at embarrassing myself, at not noticing a potentially problematic way something I say could be interpreted until it is already too late. I wish I could get into the habit of being excruciatingly reticent; it seems like that would be simpler. I tend to end up on the outskirts of things by habit, you see. It is so hopeless to feel like all I can do is watch and mouth advice that is both futile and annoying--it is like talking to people on television screens.
I want to be alone for a while, I think, with shadows and wisps of dreams. Isolation, dear Elliot, pushes past everything, I suppose.
But it's all right. I wake up in the morning with crescents of night time under my eyes, because I never do really fall asleep. And just then I am too tired to think properly and care about things. Gradually, I wake up and become more emphatically involved in the world, until by the evening I am experiencing this sensation that is like being thrown unexpectedly into free fall-I feel like I am about to reach a breaking point or simply the ground; I am overcome and nothing makes sense. It is so overwhelming, in fact, that just before I try to fall asleep, I force myself to become completely apathetic. I give up on being productive and go to sleep and wander through surreal dream sequences which are arranged like Slaughterhouse Five.
Then I wake up and do it all over again.
The poetry makes the repetition worthwhile; even if it is the only thing that does. I decided, some indistinct time ago, that in the end I will not really care if my life was tragic or wonderful, so long as it was poetic.
That is why it is going to be all right.
So I wrote this. There is proof, solid proof; exhibit A in the court room. But I probably won't look at this ever again. If I do, it will probably disgust me. I will probably realize that I have, once again, been much less articulate, precise, and coherent than I wanted to. I am already certain that by now I sound thoroughly, aimlessly self pitying and such; but for the record, I'm happy, now. Sitting here on this uncomfortable wooden chair, the satisfaction of incompletely articulating nebulous nonsense has cheered me up completely.
And also, it is snowing outside. So I might not even need the apathy tonight; might not even be a no good junkie of giving up every night at eleven o'clock. Happily ever after until tomorrow morning, and that's it, I guess.