I saw the stuffing come out of the hole on her thigh. Except she was not a doll, she was a human so it was human things, not doll things coming out. And its incredibly sad when someone thinks that is ok.
And I think of all the things that I think are ok and aren't. I become quiet. I know that if people were to see the stuffing coming out of me, they would think the same thing, and maybe not bite their lips and move onto the next thing. They would try to fix my thing, and I like my thing sometimes, even though I'm trying to fix it too.
I just have to get through this next day and a half. This next day and a half. Day and a half. And there has been no time to stop and breathe. I've been wandering the streets past midnight singing songs into the black foggy sky. I feel so sick. Is this what healing is supposed to be like? Is this what I'm supposed to feel like when one suddenly decides to change everything?
I was sitting on the bus after living like I had no home for three days. Going home. I thought about the most random things, but mostly it bothered me that nobody wanted to sit next to me on the bus. People would stand and stand and stand. There was a woman with a red coat and short brown hair with green rimmed glasses who was going to sit next to me. Then the girl in front of me moved her bag, and she looked relieved and sat down beside her.
And I'm not a terrible person, and maybe they just didn't notice there was an empty seat beside me. But I often wonder if my life is like that. All the times that no one sits next to me, all the times that I'm unapproachable.
I saw that guy in the coffee shop that I've seen now a hundred times. We keep moving in the same circles. The same places, the same people. And I said nothing to him. I don't think he would have sat next to me on the bus, but this was before I got on the bus. Everything feels like its out of order and I can't really concentrate on the now.
And I've been told that all of this is good for me. All of this thinking about things is good especially if you knew what was in my pocket right now. All of this is good things, but it doesn't help me write my paper any better, or read the hundreds of things I was supposed to read but didn't. Not to mention all of the living I haven't done this week. But this is better than that. This is better than my stuffing. It's better than breaking down into my molecules that can't function.
I remember reading a Douglas Coupland book called Life After God, and he said that you don't really feel things as intensely when you grow up. So all of this might not come out as easily as it does when I grow up and get old. When I get wrinkles, and never want to go outside. Evidently I've chosen to grow up. I've chosen this path over the one I had three days ago which was stuck in the forever of now like a photograph is stuck in the same place even though the things around it changed. I wanted to be a photograph, and now I want to be a movie. I want to be a story that changes. A trilogy. But I'm not sure about growing up. I don't know what its going to mean about anything. What it's going to mean to me.
I have great expectations for these next ten years. The last ten years weren't so fantastic. I mean I can't complain. I wasn't dying of AIDs. I didn't get pregnant at sixteen. I didn't have my roof blown off, bugs crawling in my eyes, and I wasn't shaking in fear at night of some big man coming to rape me, kill me, and steal me from my family. It wasn't one of those decades that make you sigh, and smile as a joyful tear rolls down your cheek.
Douglas says that we're supposed to feel intensely when we're young. It's part of being young. It's something that we'll miss when we're thirty-five, forty-seven, fifty-nine, and who knows how much longer people live these days. As silly as this sounds, I don't think I want to be so infinite as that. I don't think that I want to be remembered as this wasting body, this wasting mind. Inevitably if one's aware of the fact, they won't change in the way that they don't want to change.
Yet, I think of all the times that I've wanted to do something, or not wanted to do something. I remember the time I drew a line, build a wall, and told myself that I would never do that because its disgraceful, terrible and morally morally morally wrong. We crumble in seconds when it comes down to it. I did it. I still do it. I still want to do it. And I will do it again. It's like there was nothing there.
I watch the half hours disappear. I think to myself, I will do this at two thirty. Then when its two twenty nine, I say that I will do it at three. Then three thirty. Until it's midnight pushing two am, and I've still not done what I'm supposed to do. I'm afraid that if I actually do it, I might dissolve into nothing. I'll tremble and push and push and push my lungs to breathe normally.
Now I'm just writing so that I don't do something I'll regret, while regretting this because I can't do the thing that I'm supposed to. Seriously. This is no better than talking to myself except that when I do this no one actually hears it. I've long given up on the fact that people read the things I write. I used to care, and tiptoe around with my hand rested on my chin and wonder what to say, and what they think, or what he thinks or she thinks.
You live with the fact that you are nobody. That you are talking to yourself, and that you have been and will be for most of your life. I could make this palatable. I could chop it down to less than five hundred words, and gush over something pretty that I found in an online store. It's just not who I am, and I really don't care in the long run. I don't want to give things away. I don't want to present tidy opinions and feature articles about other blogs and interesting people I have found.
I want to spill the thoughts out of my head as they happen to me because if I don't get rid of them they will make me worse in the ways one doesn't want to be worse. Does one ever want to be worse in any way? Sometimes I go to come here and say something, and I can't say a single thing. I can't write down anything at all, and I wonder why. I wonder why I can't think of what to say, or say it in the way that I want. I hit delete, delete, delete, and send it to the place where things that were never meant to be go.
Since I am thinking about everything right now, I guess I could think about love. I often do think about it. I have these strange dreams at night. I forget them in the morning. I often think that dreaming is like what being in love would be like. You're enchanted, then you wake up and forget why you were so pulled into someone. Because they really suck compared to this person that you had built up in your head.
One of the things I thought about on the bus was that I would try to make my life more of an experiment than it had been. Yesterday when I was listening to people talk and talk and talk about all those things, one of them talked about how his life was an experience of living. He would pick something to do, and then live his life through that lense, through that framework. He spent a month not lying to anyone. Radical honesty. I really like the word radical. I've heard it used as an adjective before. Radical self-love. It sounds interesting, and immediately cooler than words on almost equal footing like intense, extreme, or even revolutionary. Although, I do like the word revolutionary.
I thought that I could try being radical with something for a week, and see how it goes. I made a little list in my head of things I could try, but I'm not sure if I ever will. Maybe its part of my new life changing moment. That sounds so cliche they way I said it. Like it was something that Oprah would say on one of her shows and the audience would clap for it. I would say turning points, but then it would sound like some sporting event. I don't much care for sports anyways.
I'm having a really hard time with being here right now. Being here in the moment as well as actually being here being here. Radical, radical. Be radically different. I just can't concentrate on this stupid paper. And I don't know why I can't. I really don't know why. I just have to get the feelings out I thought.
Just write them out as they happen and then once they're all gone I can figure it all out. But there's no way to write them all out, because there's so much of it. All of the things that I never tell anyone, I couldn't possibly write them out here. I think that my hands would fall off and my joints would need surgery before I got a tenth of it out here. Do I feel better in writing all of this? I don't know. I'm watching the time pass, and all I can think of is how stupid I've been in not doing my assignments.
Ok. I can't write anymore. I'm just going to lie and stare at the ceiling and be too melodramatic for words.
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