With men, I have no tongue, nothing which would facilitate articulation. Words flow from the mouth without hesitation, without a slight pause. Feeling freely is sometimes a burden, as it ends up looking as if I’ve spread myself too far, when really I’m indecisive and stubborn. With both hands clasped firmly around my beliefs, I refuse to change the way in which I conduct myself simply to make others more comfortable, leaving me content and severely unhappy at the same time. Either “the boys I mean are not refined,” or I mold monsters out of men. Sprawled out, as close to lifeless as possible, I will mouth something along the lines of, “It’s okay to like me but not want much to do with me,” to the next faceless hostage (though it’s never phrased well enough or uttered loud enough for anyone to hear). Maybe, one day the world will fit my curves with more grace.

Written on an Airplane: 30,000 miles high, 500 mph. Houses, trees, and plots of land form intricate images and shapes. When designing such layouts, did landscapers and architects ever think that one day the full weight of their work would be viewed from aerial heights? Cars on highways look like ants trapped on mounds of dirt, or on a more abstract scale, like blood cells as they travel through the capillaries and veins of the body. Plowed fields, buildings, and backstreets sometimes twist and turn, resembling the compact coils of the intestine, creating mock images of the folded up tissue of the brain.

I’m going to talk about Peter again (briefly) because he makes me think about myself, and because he is one of the most interesting people in my life at the moment, though I’m completely aware of what he’s doing. If I ask him a question, he asks me why did you ask that, what would you gain by me answering that, instead of giving me a straight answer, because he is trained to deflect anything that could be pointed towards him, and throw it back at me so that I can answer my own questions and find out more about myself. I tell him this. I also say that asking a therapist questions is like pulling teeth. I feel gratification when I get a straight answer, when I tear out the tooth.

This seized information is used to create a useless, stippled caricature. Every reply is another dot.

Caulfield’s Conundrum: It’s one of life’s unanswered questions, the ponderance of which is heavy enough to crush boulders, fracture bones. At what point, during the trek towards adulthood, do we decide to give up, incinerating all we’ve learned in the process? I fear that I, like many others, will eventually trade in teenage innocence and immaturity for delusions of grander that only mask the hypocrisy and stupidity of the “all mighty” Adult.

Walking around, armed with one eye

cemented shut and a mouth versed in

nonsense, experiencing the same loss

of function that occurs when

brain touches skull.

Ridiculous Rambling, or a Stream of Consciousness Post: I’m going to write this without going back and fixing anything. I am going to write this without making any corrections or edits. I think that I don’t do enough thinking just for thinking’s sake, and that’s why it takes me such a long time to do anything correctly. By the way, this is all going to sound pretty stupid, so if you don’t want to read anything that sucks then stop right now. I’m only doing this because I’m messing around with different techniques. I’m trying to explore different things as a writer. It’s weird how someone can randomly call themselves a writer or an artist. Those are two of the only professions that you can do that with. You can’t wake up one day and say, “Hi. I’m a doctor now,” but you immediately become an artist the moment you say you are. Peter asked me if I feel like I’m in some sort of crisis, if I feel like some horrible happening in my life brought me to his office. I figure that my crisis is life in general. I think about it a lot, and the more I think about it, the more disgusted I become. I don’t get why other people don’t think about life, how you can go through it without ever wondering why you’re here. Anyway, I’m done talking about myself. I feel like I talk about myself too much. I’ll try talking about less me related things in the future.

Beyond the silence of the suburbs, encapsulating the ease of a breath, the quietude of a whisper, you lie awake, pressing “symmetrical static uniformity” (the recipe for nothingness) to a bare chest.  On a surreal night, I am crushed by this gentle force, exhibited by a musician whose hands hover apprehensively above keys, right before he commits and places his fingers down.

The spectrum of a sunset is absorbed by porous strands. In the morning, all I see is its radiance.

I’m looking at everyone’s happiness from the other side of a window. No, I’m not shown that much generosity. I’m looking at everyone’s happiness through a crack in a wall that’s barely an inch wide. Living life like a modern-day Mary, only the world is my room.  I’ve put up every boundary myself.

I’ve been trying to do this for hours. Four typed pages.

“1. Take out a blank sheet of paper or open up a word processor where you can type (I prefer the latter because it’s faster).

2. Write at the top, “What is my true purpose in life?

3. Write an answer (any answer) that pops into your head. It doesn’t have to be a complete sentence. A short phrase is fine.

4. Repeat step 3 until you write the answer that makes you cry. This is your purpose.”

The closest I came was

To live life spontaneously and without regret and to love someone with childlike sincerity.

When do you sleep?A few hours here and there at night until the non-sleep catches up with me and I crash during an afternoon. What smells do you enjoy?Cheap imitation cinnamon. Perfume and cigarettes on clothing.

Nice man. Quite awkward for someone his age though. 

“…you seem like a very happy person. You smile a lot, but maybe it’s a front?”

“Sorta. I am happy at times. For the most part, I am. I guess. But at the same time, I don’t feel much of anything.”

Then, I start playing the game. Because I’m bored. Because I want to make him uncomfortable, which is something that’s easy to do to a therapist. All you have to do is ask them about themselves. Turn the telescope around and watch them squirm. 

“Are you married?”

“You ask a lot of personal questions.”

He uncrosses his legs and then crosses them again. His notepad and pen are lying face down on the table.

“I’m divorced.”

“How long have you been?”

“Six years.”

Every time there is an awkward silence (and there are quite a few between us during this hour) I smile and then laugh. Every time this happens, he pauses and then does the same.

“Happiest memory.”

“I-I’m not going to answer that. If you keep doing this then we may have to switch chairs.”

Experimenting. This isn’t as seamless as I’d like it to be though.

I drift off to sleep. It’s what I do when I’m bored, or lazy, or depressed. I start class, Intro to Psych, and I am unbearably unhappy. The scene changes quickly. I keep following my friend around and I ask her to hang out. When we finally plan something concrete, I accidentally ditch her. The whole time, I keep thinking about how college is going to change me. How can I do things differently? The radio sings something softly in the background, but it’s neither comforting, nor reassuring. I made a few phone calls the other day. I’m starting sessions with a man named Peter on Thursday at seven o’clock. I’ve found that older women annoy me. I feel a great urge to be as unfeeling as possible around them. Around men, I cry. Does that mean I’m doing something wrong?

I start class, Intro to Psych, and I am unbearably unhappy. The whole time, I keep thinking about how college is going to change me. Does that mean I’m doing something wrong? I made a few phone calls the other day. It’s what I do when I’m bored, or lazy, or depressed. I keep following my friend around and I ask her to hang out. When we finally plan something concrete, I accidentally ditch her.  I’ve found that older women annoy me. The radio sings something softly in the background, but it’s neither comforting, nor reassuring. I drift off to sleep. The scene changes quickly. I’m starting sessions with a man named Peter on Thursday at seven o’clock. Around men, I cry. I feel a great urge to be as unfeeling as possible around them.  How can I do things differently?