My heart is like a box of tangled yarn shoved underneath the bed.
I am not entirely inaccessible,
But pretty close.
My loneliness is portable
It is so compact .
It speaks to me from there in you.
It speaks to me through you.
But it is only mine.
He knows and understands parts of me that no one else could even acknowledge. He opened me up and reminded me of tender, innermost, innate qualities that I had left dusty in my childhood and adolescence. Parts of myself that I had abandoned due to their seeming incongruencies with the world, he reciprocates, admires, appreciates, indulges.
To really listen to someone and hear them and understand them, and also to make the listening worthwhile for the speaker, you must first be vulnerable and open to feeling their pain as deeply as your own.
Falling in love with an introvert is like forcing the most delicate parts of yourself through the cracks in a doorframe.
I need to get away from you.
I secretly envy people who commit suicide. When I hear about one, there is always this tinge of regret that it wasn’t mine. I think of myself as very cowardly for not trying. But them! That person! A success! in that it is complete. I guess that is the biggest appeal of it to me. I like the idea of being able to decide when one’s life is complete. Or over for some but for me complete. Another part of my reasoning is this undeserving feeling for my joys. I feel like I have become more shallow as I have aged and I don’t feel like shallow people are capable of real joy although more than that I don’t see them as deserving of it; so I don’t think of myself as deserving of joy or maybee even life. I am closest to suicide when I am feeling most accomplished. I feel sometimes like continuing to live after an accomplishment and not progressing is selfish and that I should not ever enjoy an accomplishment without thinking about what is next or what went wrong or how deserving another person is of the same or even more deserving or how politics played into the actualization of this accomplishment and how my modesty and reserve is really this lazy kind of deception that I keep up only by being quiet and evasive. These are things that make me think I am undeserving of life. These are thoughts that lead me to fantasizing about suicide. I would leave no note. My life is the note. The note is in the silence during our conversations. Seek me there.
Also within me there is this ugly vanity I have about having never attempted suicide. Like mormons and sex. Yes, I get urges. Yes I dream about it. Sure, the sheer possibility of its potential occurance occupies a relevant amount of my daily thoughts. But have I indulged? Never. Do I wish I had? Often. It’s like this hidden virtue that I have that is actually a wish that is really a dark secret the world wont know unless it’s done.
But also I don’t think people would respect it as a real decision. The world sees this as some kind of cop out. Like the dead are worse off and the living know that to be true and the dead are stupid and missing out and they shouldn’t have died themselves. Like a college dropout or something. I see it more as a change of program.
I don’t care if I’m happy, I just want everybody else to be happy…
i feel like so often, my happiness gets in the way of others, so i have resigned my life to one of constant dissatisfaction, because so often, there is not enough satisfaction to go around, or at least that is how it seems…
its scary how difficult i find it living in the same house as a shotgun by myself. i swear i fantasize about it. on a daily basis.
my entire life is want. i dont understand why i was put on this earth except to be denied. i feel like even my body is rejecting my need to exist. i am tired of fighting it. i feel like everything i encounter is a struggle. and all i want to do is create less friction. i am not brave enough to exist. i dont feel like i deserve it, and i dont feel like my life is worth the trouble i cause/the struggles set against me. i believe in signs. i believe that if something is wrong, the universe will manifest it.
i dont think i was meant to be born. my family seems complete without me.
When I see an expanse of white, for a moment it captivates me. I love it. For a moment it is so beautiful, clean, full of endless possibilities, wonderful things. For a split second, I imagine gardens, oceans, intricate geometric patterns, etc. Then as quick as it was beautiful, it becomes ugly. I immediately imagine a giant tarantula. Because it could be there possibly. Someone could do that. They could turn a beautiful white clean expanse and put a tarantula there and I would be able to do nothing about it but run and cry in fear and disappointment.
It already exists because it is possible.
This is why the color white both intrigues and disturbs me. The best and worst possibilities are played out inescapably in the blinking of an eye. And the worse is always what sticks.
I have spent too many hours staring at white waiting for the fear of a tarantula appearing on it to subside; it has not yet.
I feel that at any moment my psychie could collapse in on itself, exposing the tender nerve that is my sanity to society’s harsh natural elements.
A girl walked alone, contemplating a love and life lost (to what: she cannot tell.) Her world had been a happy one, more content than happy, but never, not ever, sad. She was second daughter of a happily divorced couple, a love child of equally generous, loving and successful people, in their own rights: her mother, Mumsy, was an accidentally successful financial planner for “green” companies who had gotten some sort of a reputation in the 70s and 80s at environmental protests; her father, Poppy, was many things including scholar, scientist, writer, but mostly an admirer of many, and a lover of few. Though he was not english, he often used words like “charming” and “brilliant.” Things like this were really what attracted her mother to him in the first place: the sort of juxtaposition of foreign, familiar and mystery disguised as something average.
These thoughts were of a subject that had been thought of so much, that they did not enter her mind in a stream or sequence, but rather in an explosion, all of them at once lining the walls of her conscienceness leaving space withing them for more to grow hot by her choosing, for more subtext to be brought to the surface. With each remembering step revealing another explosion of familiar thought-cycle, she hoped: this step, this could be the one that sets me free, i can not see a horizon but i know that it exists. She thought of her boyfriend, how they had seemed happy, how they had laughed, how she longed for even the worst of him, even the distant hollow of his voice the night of their end. She thought about the sound of the stream meandering beside her and waters’ invarying soft percussive fluid stops and motion, the birds, the trees, the true greenness of the leafy cascades guiding her jaunt, the contrast of them to the shimmery pavement she was tredding and the simeltaneous inauthenticity of the entire experience.
(Also, she thought of how this (inauthenticity) parralled her entire life: her mother being a cororate hippy, her father being a technical artist, making money off of the appearance of one thing, but this appearance being motivated by an underlying engine of ingeniune, mechanical, selfish even, calculations; how she respected them and loved them both for their general openness and honesty when the most she knew of them she learned from Google and Wiki; mostly she thought of how much she loved nature from the foam of her shoes on the road, but once inside it, all of its beauties were downgraded and congiled into a massive of annoyance that was swatted and cursed at the very moment she left the path. She also hated the idea of getting her running shoes dirty. )
She patiently awaited the moment of violent, blinding, liberating, realization, wondering what would come, but with each stride, though quickening and lengthening to a steady jog, the explosions were shrinking as her mental capacity for complex thought neared its psycological limit. They were now only sparks against the dark mattered canvas of her mind, blinking only flashes in insignificant thoughts: the cold air in her lungs, the distance from her starting point, the position of the sun in the sky, the irritation of the sweat around her rubbery watch wristband, the slight shift of her weight at each pace. These ignitings being stamped out by the raising of each knee until she was running, hearing only her breath and the quick, cushioned, heavy steps on the pavement. She dared not think it, but if she were brave enough to break the self induced hypnosis, to stop the thought perpetuated pendulum of sanity, she would have thought: I am close now, I can almost feel it, I can almost feel nothing. This was too big; it was too broad, and to even allow this into her subconsciencness would have been so redundant, the entire journey would have been immeadiately a waste.
And with this innate inconscious denial of thought, with this simeltaneous loosening of focus. With this immeadiate acceptance of both failure (to think) and passive triumph (over impulse), with this allowance of mometum to propel herself in her forward, weightless motion, she fell free. Teeth and fists clenched, her heart beat loud in her ears, skull, face and chest, the only monitering of her existence; momentum launched her into a full sprint. She was aware, but unnoticing of her legs fully extending in either direction, her feet, calves and thighs sharpening tight and light, her breath heavier, her lungs fuller, her eyes, wide open, seeing only the dull of the road before her; at last, she was thinking absolutely nothing.
I don’t think that people understand the true capacity for complexity that even they themselves have: in the tapping of one’s foot or the wagging of one’s index finger, in the astonished blinking of one’s eye, there is leeway for change. The amount of change varies from circumstance and person, but the capacity is infinite and constant. Sometimes this change is maintained in the regular pendulum of the emotional, physical, psychological, social and spiritual checks and balances of one’s life; but other times, or in other cases, it is violently irregular. It becomes less of a discernible pattern, and more of a meandering progressive path, whose direction can only be seen after the manifesting moment of the decision making. However clear the path or pattern may seem, it can change at any moment, and once again its capacity for change is infinite and constant.
(Many times a person may change paths entirely, leaving this one here and starting a new one there, with their established patterns still intact, or change patterns along the same path, which is really the only reason for a distinction between the two.)
In a moment, it feels like fall
although it is the dead of winter
because I remember fondly now,
just as I felt it then,
the summers/’s passed and past.