Rantrantrant
I hate verbally arranging my thoughts.
You think I'm crazy and you think I'm an idiot. Don't deny it, because we both know that it's true; you think that I'm suffering from delusions, believing in the things that I do, and you think that I have absolutely no idea that I'm working so hard to push myself off of the ledge.
What you don't seem to understand though, is that I know very well that I'm both crazy and idiotic. It's what I've based my entire life off of, and as of yet- when I've had freedom enough to test my experiences- I've never once been proven wrong.
I have more places to go than you could imagine, because you've shut yourself off from the possibility of my having a productive life somewhere that you won't be involved, based off of sensations that you can't even comprehend. And I know that I have places to go, because I know that I have things to do there- and I know that I have things to do there because I can feel them being stripped away from me every day that I'm still here, and I can see even more every time that I close my eyes, and most of the time when I don't.
I am having hallucinations. I've told you that. You must think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. And I know that the more correct term for them is 'visions,' and perhaps I'd even go so far as to say that they're 'predictions,' because they're too God damned mundane- meeting Janelle for the first time in person, hugging Raye and talking with her in her kitchen, standing outside of 46 Warren Street and staring at the front porch, searching the cemetery for my grandmother's tombstone and cleaning it every summer like I promised I would- the only promise, might I add, which kept me from killing myself for so long to begin with.
And I'm hearing voices. More mundane conversations which I'm certain I'm meant to have with people who I know for a fact live in Massachusetts. I'm seeing swimming phantasms in my dreams, faces that belong to people that I don't know but which I seem to remember live exactly where I need to be. I'm running through entire scenarios, each imbued with a sensation which is in total opposition to de ja vu: these are things which are supposed to happen in the future, or maybe even things that were already supposed to have happened but which I've missed because no one would listen to a thing that I said when I tried to explain that I needed to go home the first time.
It used to be, after we got here, that I would say 'goodbye' to people and look forward to the next time I got to say 'hello,' hope that I could say it while I looked into their eyes and shook their hand rather than tapping it out on keys or relying on digital signals to convey my words. And every time I had to say 'hello' from a million miles away, it killed me a little inside.
After a while, I started to love the 'hello's regardless of how they were conveyed, because it meant that for as long as the conversation held, I wasn't alone: I was in contact with someone, I wasn't completely alone for a few moments. And I hated the 'goodbyes,' because I never knew if they were going to be the last, and I wanted so badly to actually express what a sorrow that the parting was- but I couldn't, because I was bound by the perameters of my method of conveyance. You can't hug a computer screen any more than you can shake a telephone's hand.
Now, I don't even know what the difference is between 'hello's and 'goodbye's. My social skills have decayed to the point where I can't hold a valid conversation that doesn't involve at least some aspect of my plight. And I've forgotten what it feels like to hold someone's hand.
You think I'm crazy and you think I'm an idiot. Don't deny it, because we both know that it's true; you think that I'm suffering from delusions, believing in the things that I do, and you think that I have absolutely no idea that I'm working so hard to push myself off of the ledge.
What you don't seem to understand though, is that I know very well that I'm both crazy and idiotic. It's what I've based my entire life off of, and as of yet- when I've had freedom enough to test my experiences- I've never once been proven wrong.
I have more places to go than you could imagine, because you've shut yourself off from the possibility of my having a productive life somewhere that you won't be involved, based off of sensations that you can't even comprehend. And I know that I have places to go, because I know that I have things to do there- and I know that I have things to do there because I can feel them being stripped away from me every day that I'm still here, and I can see even more every time that I close my eyes, and most of the time when I don't.
I am having hallucinations. I've told you that. You must think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. And I know that the more correct term for them is 'visions,' and perhaps I'd even go so far as to say that they're 'predictions,' because they're too God damned mundane- meeting Janelle for the first time in person, hugging Raye and talking with her in her kitchen, standing outside of 46 Warren Street and staring at the front porch, searching the cemetery for my grandmother's tombstone and cleaning it every summer like I promised I would- the only promise, might I add, which kept me from killing myself for so long to begin with.
And I'm hearing voices. More mundane conversations which I'm certain I'm meant to have with people who I know for a fact live in Massachusetts. I'm seeing swimming phantasms in my dreams, faces that belong to people that I don't know but which I seem to remember live exactly where I need to be. I'm running through entire scenarios, each imbued with a sensation which is in total opposition to de ja vu: these are things which are supposed to happen in the future, or maybe even things that were already supposed to have happened but which I've missed because no one would listen to a thing that I said when I tried to explain that I needed to go home the first time.
It used to be, after we got here, that I would say 'goodbye' to people and look forward to the next time I got to say 'hello,' hope that I could say it while I looked into their eyes and shook their hand rather than tapping it out on keys or relying on digital signals to convey my words. And every time I had to say 'hello' from a million miles away, it killed me a little inside.
After a while, I started to love the 'hello's regardless of how they were conveyed, because it meant that for as long as the conversation held, I wasn't alone: I was in contact with someone, I wasn't completely alone for a few moments. And I hated the 'goodbyes,' because I never knew if they were going to be the last, and I wanted so badly to actually express what a sorrow that the parting was- but I couldn't, because I was bound by the perameters of my method of conveyance. You can't hug a computer screen any more than you can shake a telephone's hand.
Now, I don't even know what the difference is between 'hello's and 'goodbye's. My social skills have decayed to the point where I can't hold a valid conversation that doesn't involve at least some aspect of my plight. And I've forgotten what it feels like to hold someone's hand.