16 February 2012 @ 12:55 pm
the evidence.  
The evidence. The evidence was smeared on the futon mattress like a white drip of jelly from a lunch-bagged sandwich.

I don't know why I write in here when I have nothing to say. Feeling and watching the days pass like a tree losing its leaves, and me not being able to reach out and grab them, or try to stick them back on with tape. I'm looking down at a puddle in the sidewalk, stretching out my rain-booted foot and pressing it down on top of the rippling pool, but I cannot permeate the surface of that gray and silver sheen.

To set goals for oneself is something mentally healthy people are good at. If you set goals for yourself, small ones, and achieve them, that makes you happier with yourself. If you set unobtainable goals, you'll be unhappy, and you'll be unhappy if you set no goals at all. But I don't want to do anything. I don't want to improve myself. There is nothing to improve upon -- I am nothing, and zero times zero equals zero. It always will.

Danny complained to me through text about how I never tell him anything: no details, no context, nothing about my life. And it's true. Hearing gross details about his makes me see it in a terrible light. Maybe I just need to sound terrible about my life, too. But then he'll want to help me. Save me. I just want him to leave me alone. If I sounded happy ... I don't know. It would be a lie.

I don't want to be wanted, or used. I want to be needed.

The souls of our bodies are all going to hell and I'll rot and my eyes will be raised and red and tired and drooping, and I'll say I'm finished here and I'll put out my hand and you'll take it in yours because that's what you're supposed to do and you're a good guy, at least you think you are--or should be. Feel my pulse. Feel my pulse in the ridges of my wrists and hold onto it because the music's too loud to let you hear my heartbeat.

So what should I say? What can I do?

I suppose this will have to do: write a letter, make three wishes, adopt orange fishes.

I want to feel free on the inside
I want to stop being so melodramatic

and thinking of all the adjectives that could apply to me, because all of them could be, in relativity...

The thing is, this--whatever it is that I'm doing right now--it isn't anything; it's a way to carefully and undetectably not exist.
location: alder
♫: tha n00 yur
♥: high