(no subject)
As another semester winds down I find myself wondering how I've reached a point in my life that my clean laundry is a pile on my bed two days after washing and drying it, I have countless copies of the newspaper strewn about my floor, and I haven't seen my desk beneath the pile of papers and forms in months. I've not washed the tub in ages. The bathroom floor cries for a good mopping. Even the fine layer of dust on my stuff isn't even so fine anymore.
I feel tired and I know it's probably because it's been a relatively fast year so far and there is still much to do. I can't help but want to get in my car and just drive out where there are no lights and stand in the middle of the field and scream loudly. I've danced with strangers, admired beautiful men dressed as women (who can outdance me any day of the week), consumed mass amounts of Easter candy, and been saddened by humanity - all in the past few days.
I feel stagnant and it's probably because I'm standing still while everything keeps moving. I check websites obsessively. Flip channels on TV. And look up at the night sky. Waiting. Waiting for a sign or something to let me know that it's ok to be this unmotivated and unprepared and worried and anxious and foolish and human. I've lost interest in class lectures, unless of course we're discussing robots or fingerprints, and I don't want to crack a single book in order to write those final papers due next week.
I wanted to go out tonight but now feel like both being by myself and surrounded by dozens of complete strangers. Drunk on their joy and delirium, the music that never changes or stops. Always goes on in my head, keeps me going. I walk in circles and the same paths seem so familiar I could walk them blindfolded. Why always walking. Waiting. Watching. I'm listening for my cue to leave. To exit somewhere distant and new. I'm in love with this town and this school and these people and this music that never stops.
I wish I could control the direction my wind seems to blow me. I felt excited about flying just a few short days before and now feel listless. Angsty and pent-up and hating myself for doing things that seem normal and fine but aren't right. Not by my standards or anyone else's. Who's to say what is right. I've perused the shelves of the library. Walked away with a copy of The Stranger. Another book I've already read. I feel compelled to watch it lay on my unkempt floor and wait for me. Yearning to be picked up every time I walk by.
I watch drunk people circle. Mingle. Chat. Who are they. What are they. Red, blurred eyes stare into mine as we maintain normalcy and speak of music and books and then what. I want to be drunk but not inebriated. Messed up but not needing to hold my hair back and watch my innards circle around. Grinding hips with lights and watching pierced ears and eyebrows throb and move to the same beat. One note changes but we go on. And on and on til there's nothing but sweat and empty cups. Deafened ears and sore knees. We've ground ourselves into oblivion and beyond.
Who knew we could go so far on one beat. One string of syllables uttered and let hang for eons and eons. Diving out windows and holding heads. Crying about the madness and needing the blazing lights and shouts and orders. Compassion and friendship mixed with drunk staggers and crying. Searching for something lost long ago and baring our teeth to ourselves and each other. Grimaces shaking our frames and distorting reality. We hoped for so much but lose one each day.
Without respect or regard. Marching and listening for the sound. The cue and the direction. The same soul-sucking kisses that we crave but watch others receive. The same drunken sleep and the same mowing noises heard outside windows each day. Whistles and cries echo around us and we sit in front of shiny screens and endure reruns of old news and new events and eventful gatherings.
What have I been living for I ask myself. Is it me, is it you, is it life itself. I don't want to look into the mirror because it'll only reflect my terror and my sadness. My face which is not mine to see or give. My eyes which are bleak and blurred and monochromatic. Shades are off and the eyelids which are bare frighten me. I am skin and bones and emotion and loneliness and confusion. Sleeping in and staying out. Blue, red, white lights and dark roads.
Shadowy figures and dark cats at night. The candles are unlit and the batteries are dying. Canoes at night and wonder in the morning. The harshness and the solitude. Separation of states. You call. I answer. There is singing. Loud, drunken. I hang up. You call again. I am forced to answer out of sheer curiousity. I cannot comprehend your state. Your questions. My answers. Never right but not entirely wrong. You are off. I was never on.
I will leave here and my head will go mad from the eavesdropping that my ears will do there. I will laugh, cry, and be surrounded by my native language. It will deafen me and make me drown in its sadness and irony. I will be asked to bargain, get directions, and explain predicaments. I will be home and yet homesick. For you and your funny sense of humor. Your jokes and your imagination. I will miss important days and you will think that I'm the bad one.
I already miss you with each passing day. With each dark night and each check of the pen. With each time I breathe in your scent on your t-shirt and restrict myself to the right side. I miss waking up with you or rather next to your reposed form and listen to you sleep. Watch you with my blurred, imperfect eyes. Feel the warmth that you exude regardless of the outside temperature. I never sleep as well alone. You don't either, I like to think. Who knows the actual truth.
Reflections that twist and meander their way through my numb skull and collapse in jumbles onto a keyboard. I let my fingers move to my mind's speed and I wonder at the varied and strange result. I wonder whether this will ever make sense to me again. Or whether when I go back, if I go back, and look back, if I look back, this will look like nothing but chaos and foolishness. Or perhaps it'll be the wisest and most truthful collection of paragraphs that I have ever strung along and out and beyond myself.
I feel tired and I know it's probably because it's been a relatively fast year so far and there is still much to do. I can't help but want to get in my car and just drive out where there are no lights and stand in the middle of the field and scream loudly. I've danced with strangers, admired beautiful men dressed as women (who can outdance me any day of the week), consumed mass amounts of Easter candy, and been saddened by humanity - all in the past few days.
I feel stagnant and it's probably because I'm standing still while everything keeps moving. I check websites obsessively. Flip channels on TV. And look up at the night sky. Waiting. Waiting for a sign or something to let me know that it's ok to be this unmotivated and unprepared and worried and anxious and foolish and human. I've lost interest in class lectures, unless of course we're discussing robots or fingerprints, and I don't want to crack a single book in order to write those final papers due next week.
I wanted to go out tonight but now feel like both being by myself and surrounded by dozens of complete strangers. Drunk on their joy and delirium, the music that never changes or stops. Always goes on in my head, keeps me going. I walk in circles and the same paths seem so familiar I could walk them blindfolded. Why always walking. Waiting. Watching. I'm listening for my cue to leave. To exit somewhere distant and new. I'm in love with this town and this school and these people and this music that never stops.
I wish I could control the direction my wind seems to blow me. I felt excited about flying just a few short days before and now feel listless. Angsty and pent-up and hating myself for doing things that seem normal and fine but aren't right. Not by my standards or anyone else's. Who's to say what is right. I've perused the shelves of the library. Walked away with a copy of The Stranger. Another book I've already read. I feel compelled to watch it lay on my unkempt floor and wait for me. Yearning to be picked up every time I walk by.
I watch drunk people circle. Mingle. Chat. Who are they. What are they. Red, blurred eyes stare into mine as we maintain normalcy and speak of music and books and then what. I want to be drunk but not inebriated. Messed up but not needing to hold my hair back and watch my innards circle around. Grinding hips with lights and watching pierced ears and eyebrows throb and move to the same beat. One note changes but we go on. And on and on til there's nothing but sweat and empty cups. Deafened ears and sore knees. We've ground ourselves into oblivion and beyond.
Who knew we could go so far on one beat. One string of syllables uttered and let hang for eons and eons. Diving out windows and holding heads. Crying about the madness and needing the blazing lights and shouts and orders. Compassion and friendship mixed with drunk staggers and crying. Searching for something lost long ago and baring our teeth to ourselves and each other. Grimaces shaking our frames and distorting reality. We hoped for so much but lose one each day.
Without respect or regard. Marching and listening for the sound. The cue and the direction. The same soul-sucking kisses that we crave but watch others receive. The same drunken sleep and the same mowing noises heard outside windows each day. Whistles and cries echo around us and we sit in front of shiny screens and endure reruns of old news and new events and eventful gatherings.
What have I been living for I ask myself. Is it me, is it you, is it life itself. I don't want to look into the mirror because it'll only reflect my terror and my sadness. My face which is not mine to see or give. My eyes which are bleak and blurred and monochromatic. Shades are off and the eyelids which are bare frighten me. I am skin and bones and emotion and loneliness and confusion. Sleeping in and staying out. Blue, red, white lights and dark roads.
Shadowy figures and dark cats at night. The candles are unlit and the batteries are dying. Canoes at night and wonder in the morning. The harshness and the solitude. Separation of states. You call. I answer. There is singing. Loud, drunken. I hang up. You call again. I am forced to answer out of sheer curiousity. I cannot comprehend your state. Your questions. My answers. Never right but not entirely wrong. You are off. I was never on.
I will leave here and my head will go mad from the eavesdropping that my ears will do there. I will laugh, cry, and be surrounded by my native language. It will deafen me and make me drown in its sadness and irony. I will be asked to bargain, get directions, and explain predicaments. I will be home and yet homesick. For you and your funny sense of humor. Your jokes and your imagination. I will miss important days and you will think that I'm the bad one.
I already miss you with each passing day. With each dark night and each check of the pen. With each time I breathe in your scent on your t-shirt and restrict myself to the right side. I miss waking up with you or rather next to your reposed form and listen to you sleep. Watch you with my blurred, imperfect eyes. Feel the warmth that you exude regardless of the outside temperature. I never sleep as well alone. You don't either, I like to think. Who knows the actual truth.
Reflections that twist and meander their way through my numb skull and collapse in jumbles onto a keyboard. I let my fingers move to my mind's speed and I wonder at the varied and strange result. I wonder whether this will ever make sense to me again. Or whether when I go back, if I go back, and look back, if I look back, this will look like nothing but chaos and foolishness. Or perhaps it'll be the wisest and most truthful collection of paragraphs that I have ever strung along and out and beyond myself.