Dead Souls

You can’t think the thoughts of everyone all the time. You can’t keep stretching yourself so thin. You can’t keep considering all the possibilities and giving them as much validity as the thoughts you know in your head to be true. You can note it, file it, and move on. You don’t have to confront and process every inkling, every sense, every wormhole.

“you’ve been wrong this whole time.”

If wrong is the worst you could be…

Why is wrong the worst I could be?

I switch. I pressed my thumb into your collarbone and I had a flashback of doing the same to his broader, paler bones.
I thought I would feel differently. I thought it would be like a threshold. Remnants of revelations. I am the same. I don’t even feel…
I worry about disturbing the equilibrium, but what about reconciling my own?

All the time 

I can do anything in 3 hours, or I can talk to you. What is love? Is love finding your counterpart in another? Finding yourself in another entity, another structure, another body that you can never inhabit, own, fill? Are we that narcissistic, egotistical? Yes. 

Yes, we are. We truly want to have a sense of self. We truly want another person(s) to bring that out in us, to help us understand who this is. We need that perspective, to understand the social construct of ourselves, to understand the assumptions we have made about ourselves, to disregard the lies we have been told. 

You are not who I say I am, but you are who I feel when I am trying to be myself. 

“Learning is unsettling.”

Float up and read me 

I want to write. 

I grab the blue pen, the black pen, the keyboard. I will pick up the notebook, the phone, readjust the computer screen. Fluff and poke and stir at the words until they have risen to the surface for you to clearly see. 

I feel present. More solid than I have in months. Heavier, denser, fuller than I’ve been in a long time. How did I stop being? Why do I stop feeling? I exert matter. I have a gravitational pull. 

I am spilling, gaping, the flood is immeasurable. 


I don’t mind. I don’t mind the quiet, the lack of, the space without.

“Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Accepting the risk of absence whether temporary, permanent, fleeting, sporadic, repetitive…

“You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again. And I will wait for you.” -Fyodor Dostoevsky

You will burn out of me. I will burn you out. I will wear you thin. I will make you tired, make you laugh, make you resist. When you come back, I will probably accept that. Will you accept me? When you feel healed and I am different.

She asked if I would wait, and I didn’t know what to say. It sounded cliche as I said it, but I responded, “I’ve told myself this story a million times.”

I’m not waiting. I’m existing. If you return or if you don’t return, I will be here, there, everywhere existing.

Flat on my back, with my arms under my head, and I could smell the sweat of my arms, I could smell the grease of my head, and I tried to drum up the hum in my mind, tried to make busy with something, but there was nothing. The quiet and me and nothing in between. This is how it happens.

Remnants of revelations

You have to write. You have to ignore the dirty dishes and the pile of laundry you dragged out onto the floor and the stack of strange hobbies you’ve picked up over the years: women’s clothing catalogs, spanish language, dull pencils, drawing paper, lists of things to do and places to go, scraps of trinkets and memories.

I remind you to embrace the sentimentality, those fleeting moments when you mythologize your life. Even those moments you chose to forget about the second they were passing. Remember that time you kissed me on the swing? I forget who was the initiator, I forget if it was good or bad or tingly, I forget what was said before or after. I remember that it was dark, that we had come from the bar, that I was wearing shorts. I remember the motion of the swing. I remember the smell of the metal swing chains. Do I? Or is that just a memory I’ve formed from other experiences?

I don’t know when the story will come. I don’t know when the story will form. I don’t know what the story will be or who it will feature or what it will look like. What color it will be. I only know that the story is there. It pushes against my ribs. It lies beneath the surface of my fingertips. It’s embedded in my skin–in the yellow bruise on my forearm, in the skin lesion on my chest my doctor wants to remove, in the wiry hairs over my eyes. It’s brewing. It’s coming. I step forward and back. I draw a circle in the dirt with my toes. I can wait or I can write, pulling the words out in bits and chunks, in fragments and not quite there sentences.

You should come over. You should come over and we should make the yellow light of my main room mean something. We should make memories at the table I picked out, after careful consideration. That I knew to look for. The table I grease and polish and don’t use quite enough. You should come over so that when my apartment is bare and stripped of me, I can look around and feel you there. I can say I made the most of it. I can say I enjoyed living here and I made it my home.

I try to substitute you, to supplement your absence from my life.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“So how do you make transformational decisions? You have to ask the right questions, Paul argues. Don’t ask, Will I like parenting? You can’t know. Instead, acknowledge that you, like all people, are born with an intense desire to know. Ask, Do I have a profound desire to discover what it would be like to be this new me, to experience this new mode of living?

As she puts it, “The best response to this situation is to choose based on whether we want to discover who we’ll become.”

Live life as a series of revelations.”


Remember when Regina Spektor played and you said the song was about us and I thought how cliche can you get

But when I said “jump” you didn’t say when or where or how high. You jumped. I let you hang around for a little while because so rarely do people grab your hand and jump.

Why won’t you grab my hand and jump? What else is there to do in life? Other than to jump when everyone else is holding back, other than to go for it when everyone else is waiting, other than to try when we already know how the trying will end?

Boundary lines

Some people, they fuck up your equilibrium.

“Hi, how are you?”
“Fine, how are you?”

What are you?

I need to see. I need to know. I drive drive drive someone like me. Isn’t that human nature? To build your community. Some people, they see the shapes of the puzzle like you do, but they put it together differently. Sometimes, I get caught up in that. Don’t we put it together the same? I look over, your picture is not like mine. Your picture is like the rest. I get overwhelmed. I find myself doing unto others as they have done unto me: can’t you? won’t you? be be be. pouring and waiting and pushing. Gritting my teeth until I wring out the last drop. Aren’t you? The final moment. Hold hold hold. I have to stand in the cold rain, soak in the hot shower, lose myself in the rhythm of the soap and the razor. Find the rhythm of myself again. Fill out myself again. Come back.

Categorization is hard to defy. The natural want for it, of it. Our brains are hardwired to group like things together, to find like spaces for things. I forget. I have always walked these lines. I have always been either/or, both/neither. I have always been nothing. I have always used my chameleon skin to be everything. I can act, I can feel, I can hide in plain sight. I chase these stories; others chase one identity, one category, one shape. One grand finale. It is not now and then. Or here and there. It is so tempting to join in, to push the pieces of the puzzle together with them, to size them up and test their fit, to work towards the same final image. I want to. I want to join in, and I do join in, I have joined in. The big bad wolf is here. Let me in. Let me in. I am not a monster, I am only a child in a wolf suit.

When I’m not with you, who am I? That’s what I walk through the door with. That’s the reality. You make me want to join in, but I’m not a joiner. I’ve always been without. I’ve always resisted the group status. I act like it’s denied to me, but I defy it. I think that is okay, that is what I want. It might not be “real”; it might not be solid, stable, one. I am both sides of the coin. I don’t stand on one end, I flip over.

I am not one, but all. The raindrop or the river, the pebble or the sand, the grass or the field. The leg or the body: the razor catches and it bleeds. It flows. That’s all that’s stopping me from not existing? That’s all the resistance I can offer? The skin is not precious. These lines don’t mean anything, but it is what I have. It is what I have chosen.

I can empathize with your want, your chase, your dream. But it is not my dream, and that is what I dream of.