Meaninglessness
I had a dream I was in the desert chasing something or someone…
About to give up, I looked down to see I was running on a treadmill.
About
An observation of the roundness of things.Following
I had a dream I was in the desert chasing something or someone…
About to give up, I looked down to see I was running on a treadmill.
Seven dark strands drift down the drain…
About a month ago, I decided to procrastinate.
Inspired by a drawing from Cox, I cut squares and rectangles out of some printer paper and I scribbled all over them with a thick black sharpie and I hung them on my door.
I called it stress relief.
Only tonight while brushing my teeth did I realize the irony of my masterpiece: Though the sweeping lines are chaotic and wild on the inside, they still live in a box — little organized squares and rectangles neatly arranged on an even larger rectangle.
I guess the work may have been truer to myself than I had originally intended.
“You’re so beautiful it sings
On a lonely lazy morning
And when I see you rocking back and forth
Whispering that it’s all for the best.”
Mark Mulcahy
I’m not superwoman, damnit!
I like watching Oliver swimming around in his tank.
I wonder if he likes it just as much.
I can’t help but think that I’d feel trapped.
Perhaps he doesn’t feel that way because he has never experienced anything other than this bowl.
I’ve never known anything other than my fish bowl…
He floats a lot, pauses to drift in the water. I can feel him look at me with his small eyes, size 14 punctuation marks. Sometimes he looks like a football player on the line, ready to lunge. One webbed hand up, one webbed hand down — both frog legs spread wide.
He’s been watching too much TV.
I guess I don’t write when I’m happy.
Hello again, readers of my miserable thoughts.
I am very good at being sad. I think I’m just going to be here for a while.
No. Don’t try to make me smile with pancakes or cats.
I don’t want to smile.
I want to be here for a little longer.
I want to watch the world from my shadowed corner.
Dwell on the things that numb my motivation.
It’s not that I don’t feel loved. It’s that I don’t exactly know what I feel. And I’m not going to try to force anything.
She can do what she wants. Well, so can I.
I had a bad week.
Oliver’s hungry. He’s looking at me from his bowl.
I don’t want to go home. I don’t really want to leave my room. I don’t want to pretend.
My phone is ringing. I wonder who it is, but I don’t reach for it. I let it ring.
He thinks I don’t think about anyone but myself. I think it’s true sometimes. I’m mad at myself. He says it doesn’t matter what he wants. But that’s not true. I’m mad at you for not telling me what you want. I’m mad at you for thinking you don’t matter to me.
I don’t really want this weekend to happen. I don’t want to edit the newspaper anymore. No one really cares about it anyways, except one person and he can’t say anything nice about what we do. I don’t like him. I don’t like that I try so hard and that nothing is ever deserving of praise. He’s so very critical. ”…this is unacceptable, embarrassing.” I replayed his words over and over today. I don’t care anymore.
I replay myself crying in class the other day. I get sick to my stomach thinking about that still. I’m such an idiot. Why can’t I just keep everything hidden away like some people? Why can’t I just pretend like everyone else?
I know what I want to do, but I’m not doing it. And that frustrates the hell out of me.
You’re looking at me. You’re eyes are smiling this time. I like that much better. Too bad it’s a picture.
I want to go to sleep for a few days. Then I will wake up and I will be older and maybe I’ll get a cake with rainbow chip icing.
Or maybe I can hide in my closet.
I should be doing homework. Damnit. I don’t want to do my homework.
I sound pretty damn pathetic. Should I post this? Do I really care what people think right now? Not really. Well, that’s not true. Here’s the scene again in my mind… uncontrolled, quivering voice… I couldn’t look at their faces watching me, my vision blurs. I apologized stupidly and walked passed them and out the door. Oh god. That’s so embarrassing.
This is shit writing.
I dropped the pot and the pot cracked open
The roots exposed, pointed every direction
A petal fell, weepingly wounded
And the dirt left the carpet completely in ruin
Oh what a mess I’ve made
Oh what a mess I’ve made
Can I glue together the pieces?
And contain it much like a secret
Hidden beneath blooming roses
Like a smile that fakes, but everyone knows it
Oh the harder I try to clean up the mess,
the messier the trail seems to get
I guess I’ll just keep it where everyone can see
Where I can water it at least while on my knee.
I feel like it’s coming soon
And I’m scared.
