/////
all their faces
seem far away while my memory fades.
to be alone and to
be lonely are concepts whose differing attributes
i struggle to
comprehend in a sustainable way and any
given day the
logical mind can fall at the feet
of the deeper
root, the circular and ever circling core of
(??) H u m a n //
what it is to be
------‘i
want to go to the party because i want to be around more people than just you.’
i said-
to myself-
and struggled
musing and remusing the definition of what it is to be cruel and
the conclusions i
came to eternally slipped through my grasp.
standing in the
mirror the only thought that seemed to stick
was one of vague
and almost hopeless
understanding that
my reflection and i
should treat each
other more politely.
today i stayed in
bed with the firm
belief i was doing
what i wanted and i fell
into the same spiral
of asking myself
what it is i
really want and answering
with an
incomprehensible description of a memory that held a stable contentedness, a
memory
attached to no
person or place but closely linked
to the average and
quiet pride one feels when doing something
as mundane as
washing one’s week-old socks.
in the
malnourished state of imaginationless stupor this
contentedness
was grandly, and
cyclically,
unattainable.
a month after
turning eighteen three and a half years ago i tripped acid
and experienced a
seemingly tangible (yes) epiphany
surrounding a
concept I had
coined the ‘sunday feeling,’
coined the ‘sunday feeling,’
meaning feeling
blue and rather
depleted and rejected
by the never
ending expectations that seem to take and take, as if what little
control we had
over ourselves to begin with was slowly
being chipped
away, and on top of that sits a somewhat
esoteric
preemptive
sense of failure,
like a blanket over what
could only be
described as a husk of our former selves,
all the while
contemplating with a general resolution and yet also much disgust
the (always
looming closer)
monday to come.
today i stayed in bed with the
fragile belief (as if to believe it any
harder would make it too painfully true - and so as not to drop it, i held it in tentatively cupped hands in favour of my sanity, lest it completely dominate and
destroy all that I have carefully set up in my internal world)
that monday (employed here as an
arbitrary placeholder to signify both the day of the week, and the general
failure that is to come, both within the following days and generally within
life, in an almost constant but not necessarily consistent, or predictable,
pattern)
is always coming.
/////
