Pretty pictures, my own rambling, and not much else.

29th February 2012


The hour in which we hail the shithead.

The hour in which we hail the shithead.

Of course he reappears, you didn’t think it was over, did you?  Actually, we’ll hail the end of the influence of the shithead.  I’ll hardly hail some filth from the street.  Younger, I thought I could manipulate.  Older, I found it not worth the effort or annoyance.  Cut losses where you can.  Always.

      Please do not belittle this letter.  If you’ve looked without my permission, know it was not without my knowledge.  Who the hell would leave a schizophrenic mess where it lay?  Maybe me.  Doubtfully.  Have some more paranoia future-me, if this is what happened. 

      I feel out of practice.  It’s like not remembering the best way to breathe.  How do I gasp this out without  being betrayed?  How do I know what I want to say?  I never know what I want, more pity to me.  Lack of direction  is worse than wanting what you cannot have.  At least fantasy will hold /you/.  Not me, not for me.  What will?  If I were to will it, something boring.  It seems that I like to be challenged on occasion. Too far beyond the proximal zone and I’m gone.  I’m too into the proximal, maybe that’s my problem.  Theoretically, I think I can do it, and so I won’t.

      Too cold, too warm.  Never the happy medium.  There’s always the medium, your body wants it.  And you never notice it because you’re just too damn busy doing what?

      When I wake, I will be corpse cold, whitish, hair a mess.  Every morning that’s the way it is.  What the fuck do I do?  I always have dreams while I’m awake.

      Daydreams, on the value of my sanity.  I should so swear.  Sometimes I doubt that I am real, that I could be real.  Why don’t I remember anything?  I might as well be a character existing for the benefit of someone else.  And I don’t quite exist yet.

      No wonder he recommended the book he did.  He’d make an excellent librarian.  He’s been exposed to a vast variety, and has judgment to act on it.

      Do I have judgment or knowledge?  Can I have both?  Or neither.  I might not want them.  I haven’t decided yet.  I don’t decide.  The ice in my mind does.  It decides, and I forget the entire incident.

      What the fuck do I do when I feel I’ve failed?  I’m bothered, but not because it becomes an outcome.  It means I wasn’t a success.  And I hate being success.  I make it so I might have made it.  If I try. I didn’t. I fucking bombed my ACT deliberately.  Just one point below being of notice for notability.  It’s always just good enough to be better, but not quite enough to be the best.  Deliberate, deliberation.  If success brings me no joy, I won’t bother striving for it.  What the fuck is it?  Nothing, delusion.  When awarded an entire education, I could only be numb.  Made dumb by the process.

      Sentences fragment and so do I.  There are days when I’m not even real.  Not really real.  I feel hollow, just following along with line that present-me might like, points that she would make.  Triangulation of all memories and incidents.  Let’s play pretend.  I’ll star myself.

      Maybe that’s why I dislike those that pretend to be what they are not.  I can’t even feel that this skin is my own, and they dare to desecrate self to assuage loneliness.

      I must admit, there are days when I am so myself that I could not separate if I tried.  Would I bother?  Never.  It makes it worse, to be so passionate.  And then to be pretend to believe that I am still me, that I still care, weeks later.  I am foul then, dancing in someone else’s skin.  I bring back past-me, stealing her soul for the purpose.  She did the same.  It’s strange, to be in a body that has always been yours, and yet you’re reading from a script inside your head.  On those days I don’t say much, there is the disconnect to contend with.  I have to make myself get off the bus, eat, bathe, breathe.

      Not apathy then.  Just an inability to feel as though I fully exist.  But when you play pretend, and doing so was unintentional, it is difficult to care.  Imagine if you will, a phone connection.  You can hear everyone on one end, though distantly.  You no longer care for the conversation.  Sometimes I forget that it’s even a factor.  Of course I am myself.  The shimmer of heat waves on the paved road going up hill is /not/ the digital generation of a program responsible for producing the entire world around me.

      I am insane.  No.  Disassociation disorder is a thing.  I am disordered.  My mind is a mess.  What will we do with ourselves future-me?  Shall we fuck it all up?  Might as well.  No.  Might as well not.  Why don’t you flip a coin and decide?  I’m not up to it.  Can’t find a coin, myself in this skin.  I’ll trip.  Time hiccups and I know where the hell I am.  But when and why did I get here?  How long have I been?

      I wish I could bring myself to care.

      Your emotions, my awareness of, is ever present and stifling.  It is how I manipulate you.  Your presence annoys present-me, she, I, will provoke you.  And then there is no problem.  I am a bitch, but not yours.  You will leave me be.  Go kick someone else’s kennel.

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