an alternative to ennui
Tag Archives: thoughts
I’m not good at writing when I’m happy. Maybe it’s because I use it as an emotional release for all the tension and anger I feel. But doesn’t that give such emotions more power and control? Why don’t I write when things are good and blissful and I feel so full and content? Will it dispel these beautiful feelings I feel?
March 24, 2017.
I can simplify anything. Overly complicated issues are a product of irrational, emotional people – they cannot see the way amidst the fog. It goes as follows: matters of the heart are complex and emerge from a sad place. You can romanticize longing and that feeling after sex when your worries melt away and all that you see are those brown eyes filled with… something. Begging me to know what that something is. But all I see is sympathy and compassion. Otherwise, everything else is enveloped in a thread-bare blanket. Mislead, I believe in its false protection and warmth. For that blanket is falling apart before my very eyes and I am too stubborn to let it go.
The times we are together,
It hurts to be with you.
Is this what women warn each other about?
Why the feminine is associated with weakness?
Am I weak to want to be comforted and caressed by my abuser?
By the boy I love,
the cause of my cower.
You’ve pushed me to the edge.
Please don’t push my off again –
I barely survived
the first time.
Because if you do,
I will shatter.
I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.
But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”
Is it distasteful to state the obvious?
What do you think about at 4AM?
Do you think of me?
I just want you to open up to me.
Open your heart, not just your arms.
I feel warm and content in your embrace,
but distance makes my body cold –
that’s when I think of you
and it makes me sad.
I think sadness is what chokes and extinguishes life
and I become a shadow of the person I perform.
I take off my rings to type this story. I prefer typing to writing by hand. My ideas flow through my fingertips pumping away at lettered buttons. All this much faster than a clenched hand cramping from the hard impression of led on paper. My left index finger shakes. I don’t know why. The chances I’ll ever show this to anyone is slim, but it shakes anyway.
When I was fifteen, I went bungee jumping and when they hauled me back over the bridge’s railing, I placed my hands under their noses – palms down – and showed them my bravery. I willed my hands not to move; it was fun, but not scary. I was good. Then again, my left index finger shook. It was probably the adrenaline. Maybe that’s what it is now.
I feel a numbness in my chest. A kind of premature nostalgia. A longing for something that is yet to come. It’s all very romantic and makes my eyes sting and my throat tighten. These plastic trees make it hard for me to swallow.