I’m trying really hard to be everything. Funny and honest and serious and dirty and playful and righteous and careful and not careful at all. The real self of me isn’t those things. Or it’s all of those things but quieter. Muted. I’m so sick of trying to be it all. And for whom exactly? Just who do I think is watching. Wide open eyes theirs are.
I like to lay down
not stay up
I like most not to work
My jerk brain wants to eat it
and sop up food
and cook the damn computer
and kill the one who made it
The trixy bitch
one cross stitch at a time
Embedding our heads with the load of it all
Leading us further from fine
Coffee, man. I need it like headaches and ex-boyfriends. Like tossing back a nervous breakdown. Still, it’s a thing that I drink. Weekly, daily. And what’s the fun of decaf? No good being a poser. Better to steadily drown in hyper paranoia with the rest of the joe slugging world.
“What is meant by ‘reality’? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable—now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home beneath the stars and makes the silent world more real than the world of speech—and then there it is again in an omnibus in the uproar of Piccadilly. Sometimes, too, it seems to dwell in shapes too far away for us to discern what their nature is. But whatever it touches, it fixes and makes permanent. That is what remains over when the skin of the day has been cast into the hedge; that is what is left of past time and of our loves and hates.”
-Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Mull over reality. Then check out New Yorker Joshua Rothman’s latest piece on Woolf and privacy.
Without a doubt, I like the alone person. The mover away from, the buyer of self. Difficult to have meaningful thought around loud people - Like a sick sponge, you soak up whatever life juice they squirt your way.
Better to just shut it sometimes. Retreat like crabs and snails into other, larger things more capable of holding all the thought gunk within you.
I’m here. I’m in bed, though that’s been a different place every night these days. Tonight it’s in a hotel, awaiting my best friend’s wedding. Last night, it was in a rock of a dorm bed, sifting future thoughts, tomb sleeping.
You talk like this when you’re exhausted, trust me.
And I’m exhausted. I may as well have a baby, with the amount of sleep I’m netting lately. But no, no baby. Just brain spawn, mind spit up. So many life diapers to change, toys to pick up.
There’s too many of them, so instead they sprawl. A paint gallon red across the wood floor. A door. An open, a shut.
A help me, I can’t. A never, a won’t.
Stubborn life, get over it. Wife yourself into shape.
Fake it till you ache it. Praise, aways.
Snuff me a life ciggy. Haze, amaze.
Hurt you my hand. Forget you the days.
Comes into play
In a rosy game
"Till inside life pulls back
Then bitter pill
And what is time but just a clock thing
And what do we but follow
And what is space but just an air thing
And what do we but swallow
And love a hurting happy thing
And smiling, ourselves give
And sorrow, bitter empty thing
Which, struggling, we live
And what are all these if not things
Fragile baubles of our strife
What choice have we but hold them close
And pray fast death, slow life
I was always jealous of something getting more attention.
—Robyn Hitchcock, on the perks of selfishness.