A Collection of Spectacles

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when i was in kindergarten, i used to cry almost every day. i didn’t do it intentionally. it’s just that i was abnormally sensitive and the slightest ripple in the metaphoric ocean that was my childhood would send me to tears (and not poised, graceful, young-judy-garland-esque streams either. when i was upset, it was heaving and loud to the point of, what i felt was, near axphyxiation).

with age brought less tolerence for my actions and, soon, passive requests for me to stop turned into outright demands. eventually, it worked. i have trouble crying now, even when i feel like i want to.

time changes people.

so i seem amusing sometimes though it’s always too crude to be deemed witty. i seem strong outspoken and put together sometimes verging on masculine yet if you are with me alone in a room with my clothes removed i am frighteningly shy and aphrensive. more than anything i hate watching someone watch me watch them search for euphoria within my body. although because i am human it’s oddly gratifying i can’t stand the back and forth pendulum-like swing of voyeurism that occurs.

it’s horrible. i feel like you could care less about me. i tried to act as if i’m the type of person that doesn’t care about things. one that can become detached on a whim but i’ve realized that it’s not in my nature. i can’t do anything of the sort. i’m starting to become sickened by it all and the prospect of leaving all interaction behind is sometimes appealing. it’s starting to discomfort me more the fact that i’m wallowing in regurgitated nonsense.

(sometimes

to move forward

you must

leave something dear

behind)

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i’m so tired. exhausted.

what seems like the most miniscule of things upsets me most because…it just gets to me.

but still i wonder, is it even worth explaning?

(note: the next few months will probably read like an enticing script)

i feel like i’m only interesting when it’s convienient to think so and i’m so tired and sick of that. i don’t want to matter occassionally. i should command importance all the time.

i’m never going to get what i want in this instance. i’m starting to realize this.

still, i keep placing one hand in the situation because i’m so fearful that i’m going to shut the door on it forever and, when i do, i’ll realize that i was wanted and i just denied myself that right forever.

what’s most upseting is that i’m starting to realize that nothing’s perfect, as obvious as that sounds. immature as it is, i used to hold you in such high accord and, like when i finally realized that my parents were human and not as great as once i once thought them to be, i’m experiencing a bit of
a
disappointment
of sorts.

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i’m constantly chasing bouts of mania. because right now, i feel so normal (or as stereotypically normal as it gets) which is so odd. i find “normal” to be synonymous with nothingness. i think that all of these recent posts have been a waste of time and space because they’re full of nothingness. they’re all me sitting here, trying to dig up something to put down. and if i ever got anything to make me taste more of this normalness then i would gut myself before experiencing it. i miss the thoughts that passed through my head. it’s as if i want to produce something great but can’t because nothing comes to me. i’m not even excited about what to me was interesting yesterday. i find no excitement in anything.  the usual pursuit of happiness isn’t even appealing right now. i’m so needy. and always am when that’s concerned. i want to be engulfed in someone’s admiration. if thinking of you doesn’t throw me into complete hyperactivity and make me lose sleep then i don’t like you enough. is that okay though? to only mark being in love with blind disruptive devotion?

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