untitled

I want to say exactly what I want, and mean it.

You are the product of a conspiracy centuries and centuries old, centuries like pages in books stacked up through the sky.

Are you your mind? Can I I bother you a bit, and say that you are not the things you think about, or the sum of your numerable parts?

Once I got high and wrote these words:

"lonely lonely who is lonely?

everyone's fingers look like mine--"

Though I was. I was lonely. I am not lonely anymore.

Why just last night before sleep came I was allowed to leave myself and move amongst friends and strangers I saw that day until I reached a place to stand that was the intersection of everyone, and everything good that happened to them happened to me. And I went to sleep, smiling.

You -- what do you want, exactly? To be loved? To be safe? Do you want to swim through the ocean of others up to the sun? Do you want to swallow cities? To be rich? To be stronger than me? Do you want to hold me down and feel me, afraid?

Once I came up from the subway stairs and the sky was so wide for a second, my heart shook with fear. I thought: that must be what oblivion feels like.

(S., I am going to write these until I can speak honestly to you, and in the hope that I will then speak honestly to everyone. There are things on this page that are not true, it still mostly waste. I am glad you are out there. You help me separate the essential from the rest.)

I have already told many of my stories, made some people laugh, made some think. What was I trying to say? Will I ever say it?

I will keep trying.