fever dream

it’s like that, an absent blur. i tried so hard putting the bad behind me that i don’t even want to recall the good anymore. convinced myself that there wasn’t much to retrieve. but the bad is still there. i still get dark in my eyes, in my mind. it’s just my unique trigger, i watch something or hear something and there’s something to remind me. ‘that that was really you being that obtuse. you’re still thick enough to keep being that obtuse.’ you’ve gotten wisdom though, the wisdom knowing you can’t read anyone.

so E i can’t read anyone, especially you. i know it’s no excuse. i take off running into the night the moment you leave the room; fucking why (??????????????). it’s not like someone turns the lights off cuts the power when you’re gone. everyone go home show’s over… i shouldn’t even be here, home. i can’t focus on anything else other than the fact that i never changed, and it’s written entirely with how i carry myself. completely clueless. ‘why would i be invited to anything? what do i even look like to someone like you?’ nothing i’ve been doing is new. nothing i’ve been doing is what i really want to do. there’s a tremendous pressure to impress, put on my shoulders by myself or the impressions i get from others i don’t know. i’ve always thought highly of you, as much then as present. and what really kills me, what i honestly hate about myself the most is i let that thought reflect and magnify just how awful i picture myself to be: my mouth, my build, the inseparable block between my rationale and the ability to execute even the most simplistic small talk, slouching, darting confused eyes filled with confusion. et cetera

it makes more sense when i’m writing, right? constructing the storms in my head through a means that you’ll never read even if you knew a way to it. it’s as self-absorbed as what i’m writing, as the entire reason why i’m still doing this in the first place. this entire diatribe i’ve assembled over the last decade was nothing more than me speaking into a mirror i pretended was the face of C/S/E/M/and now you but only for the evening (disregarding the incoherent rage against pop culture, idgi anymore either). but what came of it? there was never a meaningful and private memory worth cherishing from any of these women that you wouldn’t find between two people across the world who never shook hands exchanging handwritten letters to each other. they and i painted a picture of each other, for each other, keeping both sides of our easel pointed away. but even that is blind speculation, which goes to show, i’m speaking only for what i’ve drawn.

and that’s all i see; tiny, inconsequential moments which mostly revolved around me being quiet, wondering where someone else’s head is when their eyes met mine. finding the words to scream in my head with no trace of what is worth actually speaking. so i stand up for no reason and walk out of a party for no reason because i put less pressure on myself typing out a shitstorm than being around people in the most easygoing setting. a closetcase is no match for anyone. clinging to the past like it’s a life preserver, using it as a precedent for what could go wrong in the future. remaining stagnant and isolate in the tedium of work and not working but staying in. i can’t wait, i don’t want to wait on anyone, waiting is what’s burying me in the earth.

‘i’ll walk away and play it cool, i’m sure.’