It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.
The more things happen to you the more you can’t
Tell or remember even what they were.
The contradictions cover such a range.
The talk would talk and go so far aslant.
You don’t want madhouse and the whole thing there.walked around staten island today, had a pristine time alone, in my own head. mistakes continuously made once i decided to respond to messages on my cell phone. it’s funny, there’s always that little voice, or tug, if you will, that disinclines me to respond to invitations that make me feel at all uncomfortable. i suppose most normal people are able to resist or decline entering themselves into situations that might make them feel uneasy; for me nearly all social interactions are associated with a tinge of unease or obligation. i need to get away from that, and i don’t know how. i honestly think living alone, in a place where nobody knows me, and avoiding the internet might help release me from all of the stress that has welled up. it’s funny, on the face of it i’m sure i possess some charm or charisma, but i feel like it’s lately serving more of an insulating function. lately i find that i enjoy situations like cafe el table, where i can serve some function to someone, make polite conversation, and then be done. i am thoroughly exhausted with being or feeling beholden to the will of other people. i need to find a way to get back to myself, reaching out of this paralytic well for what it is that i want out of life. but it’s hard to do, morbidly paradoxical, even, when i am conflating being alive to being stuck in a fleshy well. i do realize that we are multitudes, and perhaps putting pressure on having a cogent self is a bit presumptuous, a bit much. but i think recognizing this and acting nihilistic as a result is irresponsible. i have at times felt completely comfortable embracing ways of being that are perhaps discontinuous with my overarching theme of selves, my identity. but i think such comfort comes from being in environments that foster frenetic growth, not recursion. Every day feels permutative. Which comes as no surprise; much of life operates combinatorically. It’s only problematic in that I feel that the elements or substrates of my life that are being permuted are shit. I keep introducing new elements, thinking that novelty might help, but, no. A maelstrom of shit. While I was feverish these past couple of days I fantasized about shrinking down to a point, a cathartic period.
What name do I have for you?
Certainly there is not name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them. Just walking around,
An object of curiosity to some,
But you are too preoccupied
By the secret smudge in the back of your soul
To say much and wander around,
Smiling to yourself and others.
It gets to be kind of lonely
But at the same time off-putting.
Counterproductive, as you realize once again
That the longest way is the most efficient way,
The one that looped among islands, and
You always seemed to be traveling in a circle.
And now that the end is near
The segments of the trip swing open like an orange.
There is light in there and mystery and food.
Come see it.
Come not for me but it.
But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other. |
