I think of you often and it's beginning to make me ill. Not ill in a hopeful way, not ill in a love-drunk way, but sallow and sick. I'm really projecting here and it's making me tired. I'm riding waves of hope and hopelessness, and I truly find that I prefer the days when I don't care. At the end of it all whether or not I cared doesn't matter, and it will not alter the inevitable result of this whole thing. Which is foreseeably nothing... and that's fine, or good, or even fucking GREAT. So I would really like to stop thinking of you, and all the things I've intended for you to be (which aren't even real), because it's pointless. It's pointless, it's fruitless, and quite frankly it's not any good for me. Or for you really, because I think I've given you far more credit than you deserve. So as you continue to fall short of my plastic, culturally influenced fabrication of greatness you'll most likely develop some pretty severe self esteem issues. I've already started to watch it happen. I've really done you quite the extreme disservice, building you up so high. You don't measure up, because no one can ever possibly measure up to such a lavish, grandiose construction. I've worked long and hard on it. I've been piecing it together for most of my life actually. From my first experience with cinema, to the love song I listened to this morning. Age who knows when up to now. It makes me wretch, because quite honestly I'm fairly certain that there is a large potential that I don't even like you. But I'll never really know, because I've built you up so high, and sealed myself into a tiny box with exactly one hole. I can see things through this hole from time to time, but never the complete picture. This makes for an array of misconceptions, largely based in nonsense, or half the story. I am glad the hole is there though, as troublesome as it's proved itself to be. Because the air inside my box gets rather stale and dry from time to time. Every once and a long while I'll taste fresh air. I'm really considering altering my box, and puncturing the side parallel to that with the existing hole. It would allow for a nice cross breeze, and I quite honestly have no idea what's happening on that side of my box anyway. Sometimes someone will sit down in front of my tiny, oddly shaped window and detail the events on the other side, but I'd really like to see things for myself one of these days. It's cramped in here and I am tall. I often have nowhere to stretch my legs, and I certainly have no idea where to put my feet. I might ask you for a suggestion, but I know I'd just be hearing what I want to hear anyway, and that your suggestion fundamentally wouldn't be of that much use. Or any at all. So sometime soon I'd really like to get out of this box, and start taking my own advice. The only real trouble is that I finally remember where I set you when I placed you up high. I put you on top of my box, and now I am stuck with the seemingly impossible task of figuring out a way to take you down from the top while I am still inside.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Today I feel like I am taking up more space than I can remember. I don't feel heavy, or wide. I don't feel round, or soft. My tight, dark, straight legged jeans fit in much the same as the did yesterday, and the day before. What strikes me about them is that I think I feel like they somehow belong to someone else today - that maybe yesterday they might have been mine, but today that is certainly not the case. I am very aware of filling them, and how strange the feel to find me inside.