20 May 2011

A strange sensation is emanating from my blood. I have been able to come to terms with this sensation with every year that it passes…not exactly to the point where I can embrace it, but I understand it’s there and that it will never dissipate altogether. This longing to be with good company, this longing to grasp onto the last juicy moments, this longing to know that there is no other way I’d rather spend an evening. As opposed to sitting in a cave where loneliness manifests into a restless slumber. Constant tapping. Constant checking. Reevaluating what I could have done differently. How I could have used my time more efficiently and symbiotically. I’ll ask myself, ‘Why do I wear shades inside?’ Or ‘What drives me to hate a person?’ Or ‘When will I stop caring?’ That is, if I stop caring. Let’s hope it never gets to that point. I feel lodged between two worlds, both dripping with attractions and death sentences. Doing something for myself or for other people. Selfishness versus selflessness. Most things I say don’t exactly make sense. But that’s the beauty of it all; it only has to make sense to me for me to take anything from it. If I remember why I wrote it. If I don’t remember why I wrote it then I’ll never know why I’m reading it to remember why I wrote it. Does that make sense? I know what this summer is going to entail. It’s going to be sulking and working and making money (hopefully) and wishing I could be doing something better. Because that is what it is always like…endless droning. Buzzing and puffing and swimming in circles. Letting slices in my flesh act as gills under a running faucet. Oozing pus when it turns that time in the 24-hour day when it is not night, nor day. Just hoping the sunset brings a different attitude with it then the one your vacant head possesses and obsesses over. Where whatever projects your 4 o’clock mind has started loses all motivation and importance. Where there isn’t a drop of coffee that your bloodstream could benefit from. Where you apply heavy make-up in hopes that your bloodshot and baggy eyes can camouflage themselves under the layers of artificial color. Where you feel the need to turn on the television even though the sound is like mosquitoes to your ears—but you need that feeling that something is on and you’re watching it. It’s in the background but you feel no great satisfaction. It’s the way of the world—to suffer. The only difference between me and an optimist is that I’m a pessimist. P E S S I M I S T.

I need to turn this into a play somehow.