Maybe what scares people the most about liquor, isn’t in fact the consumption. It’s the social situations that drive us to the drink, or perhaps, what’s worse, when we don’t drink enough; the sole, little amount of liquor quickly giving us a clearer version of what’s truly going on in our heads. The meat of the situation is, there’s a whole wide life out there waiting to be lived and one day, taken down off the board and there’s this little five foot tall girl I know hesitant to start the walk even though she’s twenty one years down the line. Fact is, the little lady knows more than she should, and less than she will hope to ever understand. There are large shears tearing away at the suspension cords, and as I float my head quivers with the sudden satisfaction of the cool collect of dissonance. There are things to be done, places to be seen, and moments to be had just the same as these and theres and yet the road seems distant and the feet to get me there seem already, sole(soul)less.
I will write all I can, though it be 2AM, though I be exhausted, in order to figure the truth about what is going on in my head. Well the truth is, I have no clue what is going on. I’m further from being in the know about I feel than I ever have- mostly, I’m sure, due to the fact that I haven’t been able to barely catch a minute by myself. Even in my own room I feel I am getting stared at at every angle (which technically, I am; most especially from Gabba’s walls), and I hear the constant noise of others around me who I have probably seen at least half a dozen times in the last week and I know their toilet rounds and heeled afternoons, most unfortunately, by heart. I am surrounded by people who assume they know what is going on. More specifically, those who assume they get me. I am surrounded by an institution who keeps forgetting my credits, or how many courses they need me to take or…what major are you again? I’m sorry…and what did you want to do after college?
All I wish to do is cut the crap away. I’d love for people to be straight up with me; maybe then I would know exactly how I felt about each and every person and each situation. Instead I will sit here, smile and act pretty because that’s what I am here for, isn’t it? To listen and give my frank two cents, even though everyone thinks me cutely kind for it. I do it to prove nothing. I do it to solve only what little problems I can help with and hope that one day, one singular, future day, will hold better things with bigger problems with people who need help with mending that cannot be taken care of in a single-sweep coffee conversation. I just broke the fourth wall; spoke in earnest and was unforgiving with my words and now THE TRUTH IS OUT! We can start to no longer trust her again, and thank god, she was becoming too honest for our own good.
No. I do not expect anyone to “understand”; no, I don’t particularly--no-- I just honestly care, not a bit. This game we play of collegiate mess is a tricky thing to figure; pretend we can play Russian Roulette with each other’s hips and fingertips in order to shove the opponent off the socio-emotional board. I wonder, often, how many people I will actually correspond with after graduation; and then I remember how fleeting such connections are and add in my head the miles growing between us and them and already.
I wondered if I wanted to take anything seriously, today, as I walked back from class after a test I crammed for a few hours for and finished in twenty some-odd minutes. I wondered if I cared it went anywhere and when I realized I truly didn’t, I wondered where a part of my heart went and thought it was stuck somewhere in my shoe before remembering it was placed quietly behind my ear. I wondered then when I would care if anyone truly saw who I really was again before remembering I don’t care now so how should I expect a reciprocation of such said caring.
Bitterness is a molecule that when force-fed correctly to other molecules, subtly creates apathy. The hardest science fair project is to debate the where and how passion does not drizzle and freeze into being apathetic, and where the twists are in the plot of bland living situations in order to make us mental bank.
I used to want to eat love for dinner. Hope it made me feel something, if not, full. Instead it gave me everything I hoped for and more- it taught me something then reminded me I had to one day, show up at my own door and remember to love this selfsame chick again, somewhere, burrowed under all the lesson plans for future manly endeavors. I know now giving in to unexcitable love is the rule for those who’s flames have been licked out by a duller turn in life, and I only hope to never be the other side of the lonely chosen one. What is dedication to another, do I even remember the term any longer? Now that I’ve realized I’m more like the last one I loved than I had ever imagined, and finally know I’m no greater than the wisp of wind he as a dipping, spinning leaf turned on? I am a little, awkwardly blurting, cheeping bird who knows no distinct migratory pattern; who expects no hand to sooth her wayward, miffed feathery coat; who figures it smarter to peck at the choices far from her, the seeds of a distant ground more tempting and less apt to be a stage five clinger.
If you want to remember freedom, I will give it to you; it rests between your sheets the day you wake up and find cotton stuffing as your head about the fact you sleep and you sleep alone. Your heart swells with pillowcases soft and lavish in all your glory of alone-ness; of all the sweltering heat you could’ve friction-forced adding legs and crossed fingers into the illusion of a fully good-intentioned night.
If you want to remember prison, I will give it to you; it rests between your sheets the day you wake up and find the most detailed stranger etched before you streaming their snores all wireless and without connection.
If you want to remember me, I will not be able to give me you, or give you me. Whatever anyone will remember me by, I surely will never tell.
I am a detached, naked and shivering fledgling, excited by the prospect of using fake Keds for jumping ropes, and using all the heart in her kindness to fix the broken hands of the ones who need building.
For once I don't give a shit about being loved, but what the fuck, gentlemen? Would someone hurry up and get the fucking point already? I'm earnest as shit, but woah boy the more honest I am, the less I make sense so treat me as I am and hang me up as your abstract painting.