A false disagreement I keep with my cortex,
when mirrors disengage from content,
instead proposing a plan to self destruct.
Left and right brain duel over stretch marks.
The constant time keeping the train of thought,
delivers a series of newsletters telling,
all about the newest shortcomings on display.
Guessing about the wedges between my fingers,
they absorb like moss in front of a crowd,
to flourish a life that erodes and siphons another’s.
A symbiosis that grows if left unchecked by,
the audience, the grand jury of peers,
fascinated by every facet of movement,
or so it is thought, when in fact each believes,
the same unspoken grievance of judgement.
Invoked isolation is a testament to shallow doubts.
Happiness would be appreciated sometime soon.
Not that I could find among anything
I never found it among anyone.
Best bet to find it within me I suppose.
From myself and my core I wish to be more.
When surrounded by people, I don’t feel me,
I feel alone. Even when alone, I can be happy.
I am me in crowds, but don’t want to be me.
The soporific stretch of one-hundred miles, with the same Midwestern fields blurring on the windows, always struck a familiar chord with me. Whenever I drove passed Lisa’s Pie Shop, I considered stopping by out of interest in roadside desserts, but home was a straight shot away and I kept on.
Every visit to-and-from the heart of the state evoked memories of law-bending naivety and diary-stuffing dilemmas. My friends and I channeled between lovesickness and transgression while polluting our lungs with cheap cigarettes.
In the classroom, we were upright learners.
After the bell rang, we were sovereigns of the hallway.
During pep rallies, we chewed bubble gum into pink balls and tossed them onto the heads of the cheerleaders sitting several bleachers below us. At a distance, the teeth-imprinted wads appeared like stuck pigs in slick mud-water.
During lunch, I skipped the overly-crowded cafeteria to meet up with the woman I became crazed for after making out in a bathtub and picking at her mind at the biggest house party this insipid county has ever seen.
We patched stories with healthy carelessness before being released into the jungle of responsibility. We were coming-to-terms with adulthood, equally terrified and seemingly prepared, but nonetheless, together.
Patricia Meyer Spacks wrote, “if conflict is the essence of fiction, adolescence provides rich material.” To me, any form of story-telling is eagerly inviting to this truth. It is powerfully bittersweet and unavoidably shifting. We are the living examples of consistent movement, which narrows down to an alteration of self.
From faded band-tee’s to ironed long-sleeves. From playfully dodging situations that result in mugshots to carefully budgeting for a mortgage.
As the wheels continued to bump over cracks on the pavement, I was consumed by dreamy contemplation, remembering all that was simple.
i’m sick if always having to prove that i am ACTUALLY interested in the stuff i like, just because someone doesn’t understand it that doesn’t mean i’m stupid and can’t tell apart interesting and boring things… next time someone questions that i can be not only interested but also good in opposing disciplines i’ll mention leonardo da vinci and just say they’re narrow-minded instead of making efforts to explain how someone with a love for journalism and poetry can go into computer science and why everything is connected… ugh
don’t ever give up an interest just because people say it doesn’t ‘suit you’ or they don’t understand what you like about it and make you question yourself
there is no time for these things, just let them get frustrated while you write your guitar songs about nuclear physics and learn japanese while making expressionist art, listening to post punk and getting into the inner workings of your state’s politics before you recite shakespeare and write a fantasy novel in the chemistry lab… and kick ass at ALL of these things
it doesn’t matter
this has destroyed almost all my motivation to work on anything because i don’t have a distinct subject that is ‘mine’ but really it is what you make it
the world is open and consistency is just a construct to keep us from exploring it
I’ve noticed that when something happens to me that shouldn’t have I just kind of shrug it off and make myself believe that I’m overreacting, that it wasn’t actually what I think it was. I always think that worse things have happened to people so I shouldn’t feel badly about any of the stuff that has happened to me. But that’s wrong and I need to start making myself believe that what has happened is not okay and that I do deserve to be treated better. I went through these things and it has effected me and that right there is enough to know that it is important. Those moments set the tone for the rest of my interactions with the opposite sex and all of those as a whole, over the past 7 years, have made me see my worth as less than it is. Do you ever just get so used to a certain way for so long that you forget that’s not how it’s supposed to be at all?