In a sense
In a sense
You know what I don’t do very often anymore? I don’t allow myself to just write. To just level with the blank pixelpage in front of me. Am I overthinking it? Am I trying too hard? I’m not sure, but most of the time I feel so scattered and mentally depleted that I can’t seem to write the “normal” way.
The “normal” way requires so coherence; a write-and-read conversation, if you will, and that sort of simplicity baffles the hell out of me.
As a highly-verbal person, I yearn for some kind of conversation. (I mean, I watch TED talks when I get too isolated socially, since it’s kind of like interaction, right?) I yearn to be able to chitchat. More so, I’d like to chitchat and enjoy it. Am I the person that wears a suit and tie to the family barbecue? God, I hope not.
This social awkwardness extends itself into my blog-writing, and diminishes the lines of communication, and places the reader (you) in an observation room. The reader (you) stands in the room, watching the spectacle (myself) from a two-way mirror. Two-way is a misnomer, though. It is one way, and that’s what I dislike.
A one-way interaction occurs between myself and the world around me. My abstractions and obscurities have placed me out of the reach of person-to-person interaction. Listeners smile and nod when I speak, but there is nothing being communicated, save the disparaging difference between the individual and myself. In a way, it feels like people are intimidated by me. Like, they act as if I’m going to judge them for each of their words, and maybe even spit fire at them if I find them uninteresting.
I mean, my intense facial expressions may come off as bitchy, but I have a headache most of the time and am probably sleep deprived.
So, I retreat back into my elaborately constructed mental world, only to poke my head out like a turtle, curious of what the outer world is experiencing in my absence. Maybe I, too, am a spectator in that sense.
Now, I mention something I would only share from the safety of the internet mask; in December of last year, I discovered that I have an exceptionally high IQ. In the top 1%. Typically, I’d never even utter the acronym “IQ,” due to the rage it incites in so many people, but you should know a few things before you write me off.
Number 5 is the kicker. Listen, I sometimes tear up about the morning dew on spring grass. I think math is fun. I don’t know how to relate to people. These are hardly glamorous details. Often, I think that the nature of my intelligence is a burden; it’s kind of my “antihero.” Or maybe it’s the wand Ron breaks in Harry Potter. Analogy-schmalogy.
The reality is this: I wouldn’t know how to have a friend or even how to be a friend if I tried. Or maybe I just haven’t met the kind of person that’s compatible to be something like my friend. I just want someone to cry about the beauty of the dew drops on the damn spring-green grass, okay?
She was Goldilocks; possibly, she was Mic Jagger from the Rolling Stones. Her porridge always seemed to be too hot or too cold, and, no matter how hard she tried, satisfaction evaded her.
Oh, I must be Eeyore, she thought.
Only on some days, she realized.
In this particular moment, she must have been Eeyore, or Goldilocks, or even Mic Jagger. She, sad girl, was sitting Indian-style on midwestern grass in the dead of night. The resident geese were tucked away for the evening, and so she was all emptied out by an emptied out pond. Despite having accomplished a hard day’s work, with all her studies and writings, she felt so sad. No, not that painstaking sadness, thank Woolf, but the kind of sadness that leaves a person in a freeze frame while the world buzzes on by. Except, over time, the buzzing becomes this blur, and no single face is really recognizable anymore.
Where did all the people go, she asked the night.
The night said nothing, and so she assumed they were still out there, even though she was not.
It was all just really upsetting to her; toiling away, day-in and day-out, and for what? She couldn’t see the point of it all, and the world would not let her be James Joyce, anyhow.
Two hands claspedinprayer
Head,shoulders bent forward
Forgivemefather for I know what I do,
Not me, I sureasHell don’t.
I walk the other way to avoid all the smalltalk,
Drink straight from the faucet mostly.
Ramble off an assortment of curse words,
I know they make people feel weird.
Read the small print even when asked to skim,
I don’t shower daily.
Wear black with brown even when it’s unfashionable,
Refuse to greet with a handshake.
Hot car roasts me/
Waiting for C. at his therapist’s office/
Hope his therapist doesn’t think I’m a bitch/
She probably will/
Called my Pdoc; these pills are making my skin breakout/
I’m only half insecure about it/
I want to be perfect/
Being thin isn’t enough so I need to work out/
Laid by the pool a few hours ago/
Puberty-influenced boys gave shameless stares/
I told C. they would/
C. knows D. and I had sex/
We’re getting used to to his gay/
I thought of the bliss of nudity out in the open/
Sun and breeze on fleshy skin/
In my right mind, I don’t think I can be here much longer/
Read “Tender Buttons” by Gertrude Stein/
Found it fascinating for reasons unclear/
Received love letter from D. today in mailbox/
The aesthetics made up for the empty words/
I suppose I am a bitch/
Certain parts made me smile/
Maybe I should just appreciate that he took the time/
I am not a romantic/
D. is a romantic/
Pencil is clanging against my thumb so rapid/
Eyes are bored/
Where’s the liveliness?/
C.’s walking out the door/