i don't question the words that come unbidden, because if i do it might mean they will stop coming entirely and then i would die. the perversity of birthdays is getting to me. that, and the missing anniversaries. why should i care? every day is the same. i do not want every day to be the same. just as i do not want every person to be the same, and i don't want to be the same and everything the same the same my god stop it.
i am not crazy. i am sad. i am deranged. i am displaced. i do not belong. in my own head.
it gets more and more tiresome each day to think of things positively. i begin to read those books again, the ones about honour bright and meaningful moments and why must days be productive as well as happy? they could be both and that would be excellent, and they might be either and it would be bearable, but when they are neither the world seems very bleak and disgusting and one ends up thinking of the people who were around when it was different.
why do i care? why do you care? i dreamed it in a word when i was walking along hospital corridors on my birthday and wishing someone had cared and they asked me, why do you care? and is it important? and what difference does it make? and they all say, why do you care if nobody wishes you on your birthday and i say i do not know, i do not know why i care, i only know that i do because it hurts me so.
i am lonely. it has been a long time since i was lonely; i did not recognize the signs until it was quite far gone. the one-with-his-name says i pursue friendships with aggression, but he doesn't know how much i need it and that i would be prepared to beg for it if i didn't know that begging only brings you disdain and despisal (do you remember wondering about this word?) and the very empty evenings. he says i loathe myself. so did the one-with-his-name. did i wonder about this already? i forget the things i have said and the things i have thought, and my mind cannot tell the difference between what is real and what isn't. and there i wish i had said is not, because it was the phrase i had thought of first, but then the rhyme hit me in the back of the head and tasted like sewers smell so i think i will let it go for now.
i do not have enough to give.
i miss him so. i am ashamed to admit it, as though i were confessing some dire fault that i would rather keep hidden from the world. "narcissistic self-loathing" and i worry that i listen to other people's opinions of myself too much but then i always worry i always worry. i want to say i worried less when he was around and i did perhaps i did for a while a very little while when i was certain he didn't know how i felt about him and how much.
i need somebody to come along and take all my troubles away and is it odd that i would rather be crazy or stupid or depressed than admit that i am lazy and a coward. i say it sometimes, lazy, and other people parrot it back to me with strange pride, as though to be lazy were something one could only be after years of trying.
i worry about the wishes i wake up to. i am afraid of how hard i will fall. i was afraid before; i remember i was afraid before; i remember thinking about falling and writing about falling and something about woods and forests and paths that look the same and are different or look different and are the same and i don't remember who it was i was writing about no i tell a lie i remember who the woods were about but i cannot for the life of me remember the first two times boys broke promises.
why must i always remember the things people promise? like the dancing on my birthday and the visiting on my birthday and the letters from an uncle and . but i will not write it because then i will remember how much i wanted it and perhaps i will cry again. i wonder that i still have the moisture left to cry as much as i do; i do not drink enough water.
perhaps i am miserable not because i have hope but because i don't - perhaps it is that despair that is born out of hopelessness; the knowledge that all the boats are burned and the bridges are burned and all the eggs broken.
i am tired of being lonely. get up! get out! get away! get some! but the effort is not worth it with no guarantees, and i am not over him yet not over him and now i am thinking about him thinking about how stupid i am, and how young, and how stupid, and thinking he knows he knows how i feel and he knows what will make it better oh you fool me fool both fools and why did you have to push me and push me and push me.
Maybe it is a lie. a lie. my life is a lie i am a lie i am. perhaps i should warn people i meet that if they spend more than a day around me and are kind to me without my asking that i will love them because it is rare to find kindness. maybe.
i am so tired of being lonely.
i am not crazy. i am sad. i am deranged. i am displaced. i do not belong. in my own head.
it gets more and more tiresome each day to think of things positively. i begin to read those books again, the ones about honour bright and meaningful moments and why must days be productive as well as happy? they could be both and that would be excellent, and they might be either and it would be bearable, but when they are neither the world seems very bleak and disgusting and one ends up thinking of the people who were around when it was different.
why do i care? why do you care? i dreamed it in a word when i was walking along hospital corridors on my birthday and wishing someone had cared and they asked me, why do you care? and is it important? and what difference does it make? and they all say, why do you care if nobody wishes you on your birthday and i say i do not know, i do not know why i care, i only know that i do because it hurts me so.
i am lonely. it has been a long time since i was lonely; i did not recognize the signs until it was quite far gone. the one-with-his-name says i pursue friendships with aggression, but he doesn't know how much i need it and that i would be prepared to beg for it if i didn't know that begging only brings you disdain and despisal (do you remember wondering about this word?) and the very empty evenings. he says i loathe myself. so did the one-with-his-name. did i wonder about this already? i forget the things i have said and the things i have thought, and my mind cannot tell the difference between what is real and what isn't. and there i wish i had said is not, because it was the phrase i had thought of first, but then the rhyme hit me in the back of the head and tasted like sewers smell so i think i will let it go for now.
i do not have enough to give.
i miss him so. i am ashamed to admit it, as though i were confessing some dire fault that i would rather keep hidden from the world. "narcissistic self-loathing" and i worry that i listen to other people's opinions of myself too much but then i always worry i always worry. i want to say i worried less when he was around and i did perhaps i did for a while a very little while when i was certain he didn't know how i felt about him and how much.
i need somebody to come along and take all my troubles away and is it odd that i would rather be crazy or stupid or depressed than admit that i am lazy and a coward. i say it sometimes, lazy, and other people parrot it back to me with strange pride, as though to be lazy were something one could only be after years of trying.
i worry about the wishes i wake up to. i am afraid of how hard i will fall. i was afraid before; i remember i was afraid before; i remember thinking about falling and writing about falling and something about woods and forests and paths that look the same and are different or look different and are the same and i don't remember who it was i was writing about no i tell a lie i remember who the woods were about but i cannot for the life of me remember the first two times boys broke promises.
why must i always remember the things people promise? like the dancing on my birthday and the visiting on my birthday and the letters from an uncle and . but i will not write it because then i will remember how much i wanted it and perhaps i will cry again. i wonder that i still have the moisture left to cry as much as i do; i do not drink enough water.
perhaps i am miserable not because i have hope but because i don't - perhaps it is that despair that is born out of hopelessness; the knowledge that all the boats are burned and the bridges are burned and all the eggs broken.
i am tired of being lonely. get up! get out! get away! get some! but the effort is not worth it with no guarantees, and i am not over him yet not over him and now i am thinking about him thinking about how stupid i am, and how young, and how stupid, and thinking he knows he knows how i feel and he knows what will make it better oh you fool me fool both fools and why did you have to push me and push me and push me.
Maybe it is a lie. a lie. my life is a lie i am a lie i am. perhaps i should warn people i meet that if they spend more than a day around me and are kind to me without my asking that i will love them because it is rare to find kindness. maybe.
i am so tired of being lonely.
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