stream of self consciousness

I’m sorry. Is this unprofessional? Let me begin.

I went for the notebook but grabbed the journal instead. It’s been so long since I’ve written anything from here. On my bed. It’s always been in the afternoon, when I go out and “prepare” myself for it. Try and still the spaces between my mind’s rooms. My tears are hot; the wind is cool. That can’t be right; this is Florida. The wind is hot; my tears are cool? Does being angry at my friends for collectively taking this time to stop responding make me seem sensitive? Does craving power over love make me cruel? Somehow not human, or less human—than you? A stone cold statue of a stone cold man / emerges from the summer solstice. Absurdists, I like; I love. It’s all absurd, really. The sooner you embrace that, the better off you are, I think. I think I loathe few emotions more than pity. The receiving end, especially. Makes me feel weak. [That’s your cue not to dare say anything to me about this.] It’s the power I want. A part of me always has. Maybe it always will. Control. Over the whimperings of my heart and the falterings in my will.

Portrait of a young man as stone. Statues are always described as cold, not warm. What scares me—but not the most—is not knowing whether I actually love or hate all of you, after all. [I suppose all is an exaggeration. Perhaps I only mean the aforementioned.] Oh but that’s such a naughty word nowadays; hate. Wouldn’t want to get cancelled, to plant a bomb that could explode on me years into the future. I ought to be more specific. Hate? No then. Resent? Yes. Why? Well. Because you can clearly, obviously move on so easily with your lives. You don’t need me; you don’t want me; goodbye. [Well sweetie I’m glad you had all this time to figure that out.] I don’t need you but I hate that I wanted to. That I wanted nothing to change.

I’ve tried to pride myself on being [mostly] self-sufficient. It only falters when I let someone in. What a trickster, that Trust. But would I have done any different? As you did, I mean. Not in the actual circumstance, I mean. Though I am tempted to regret ever having met. But I don’t. I know what it’s like to want to let go from everything and everyone you know. (Unless this is somehow personal.) Even then, I wouldn’t blame you, really. I blame myself. For getting my hopes up. For thinking I’d found something of a home. Time to move on. Pack up all the loose pieces in this compartmentalized soul and start searching for somewhere else to roam. I’ve done it so many times before. In a way, it’s my life’s ongoing story. One of them. (There are so many.) And I’ve begun to lose the ability to tell—which are dreams and which are real. Hahaha it’s a fun little game that always ends in an oh well. The dreams of my life might as well be my reality. They’re far better, but maybe that is what makes them so. Their essence, tied to what they are not. I wish the same could be said [or not be said, rather] of me. Me and this stream. This stream of self-consciousness.

I close my eyes and I see a screen. Like staring at a light too long; a ghost in a dream. My nightmares started appearing in numbers; do you know how repulsive that is? Ah, to be loved is not so nice as to be liked—is it? To be a victor of the game but not a player. Is that one of my impossible dreams? I hate it? [no that was a period]

Reality would be easier to enjoy if I wasn’t always thinking about it all the time. It’s not a combination of squares I can spin and set, till I have all the right colors on one side. Disgusting. Why would I even think that? What is wrong with me? Me? Or us?

I didn’t make eye contact with the barista today [you know, the cute one]. Robbed myself of the chance at that little internal earthquake. [OH BUT HERE. let me just STOP it all so I can spin to a tinny string of violins.]

I like to watch couples interact in public (the younger ones usually with a more judgmental air. all that fawning). The couple in front of me? They kissed. I saw it on my drive home from work through their backseat window. It was sweet. I guess.

What really disturbs me is when I see lovers who look so much like each other, in appearance or manner or even dress. It gives me the idea that we’re all looking for parallel versions of ourselves, only better? It terrifies me. Like I’m looking for a reflection of myself. But am I? If so please stop that now.

I feel that I feel things so strongly—so singularly—how could anyone understand? This lying on the bed, breathing the wind. The bowed cover of the paperback, bent from use, bobbing in the breeze. Vines of tiny lights winding up and down. Paintings on the walls. Book stacks on the ground. Some sleepy piano solo without a real name. It fills the space between every one of these words. Has anyone felt this before? Am I conceited enough to think, no? To think I am alone in such empty, isolated bliss?

This stream of self.

Consciousness.

Oh what an age we live in. Always looking to, living through

Others.

Never more consumed by, never further away from

Ourselves.

Reaching with our eyes, pushing with our minds

Drawn together, pulling apart

Conversing in fake words and images has become a beautiful, manipulative art

All those words, to say nothing

All those people, to love no one

We hide ourselves. Promote ourselves. Pretend to be ourselves. Then grow angry when we come to realize [several times] we don’t know who that is.