A Collection of Spectacles

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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.

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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.”

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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?

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I’m sitting outside, chain smoking. I spend the rest of the night following him around, asking him questions. He peaks my interest for a while but, like most people, he doesn’t hold it for very long. We’re on the floor in a room and he keeps telling me that I move too fast. I can’t do anything any other way. Then, my friend opens the door and she asks us what are we doing. I don’t have an answer. I don’t sleep. My imagination carries me, takes me away to distant places. We are sitting in a smoke filled bathroom (for which I am bound to get in trouble for) and I am about to leave when I am kissed. I react hesitantly. Then, a whispered why not is heard. Whether it came from inside or whether it was spoken into my ear I can’t remember. Either way, I can’t think of a good excuse, a good reason why I shouldn’t, so I go along with it, which is something that I do far too often. I dream a vibrant dream: Three sets of three balloons fill my room and I have to push them all out the window. My imagination carries me, takes me away. We’re standing in the kitchen. I’m cooking. I’m trying to get relationship advice, but I guess that the way in which I’m going about it is sending out weird signals. He says they’re all like [   ]. Every last one. By “they” he means his friends. Now, I’m lying in his lap and speaking incoherently, traveling every inch on the emotional spectrum in the span of a few seconds, because alcohol makes me honest. I am indecisive. I keep saying, you’re too nice, and I explain that I need to be treated like shit. It’s my primitive form of entertainment. It keeps me interested. I drink more, and I am able to have thoughtless sleep. My imagination carries me.

It’s all a jumbled mess. It’s all jumbled and mixed up.

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the beginning). I am writing this in haste making the mistake of exposing four day old callouses ripping them open for viewing sharing their contents though it’s far from the right time to do so. 

On the phone I tell her everything. She says I shouldn’t get so… honestly I’m going away soon and I’ll find anyone I want someone who I can have on honest terms. I don’t need to keep sleeping in the mess I’ve made every night bound by a quilt woven out of past flings I keep revisiting. Either my shitty memory or my hopeful nature makes me believe that I can leave something alone for a while but when I revisit the situation will be different.  

Listen closely to the waves and the sounds that they make: My affectionate feelings towards men are usually representative of an erratic moon that waxes and wanes as it pleases. This time, I will have to smother this unbearable infatuation on purpose, simply so that I can function without dwelling on the matter because when I do it feels like I’m 

I can barely explain the feeling in words. It’s somewhat reminiscent of choking.

The day after, I awake with the elation that’s felt when you remember that someone had left an impression on you the night before, and a shimmering sliver of hope appears before me, barely within tangible reach. Just as it forms something recognizable, it is soiled by a bitter mix of jealousy and the uncomfortable realization that I can’t have, and probably will never have the joy of knowing him in that form once again (even though for a few hours, which felt like alcohol-driven seconds, stumbling and staggering steps taken through time, I did).  

I will keep this a secret, held between my tongue and my teeth, hidden within the wet crevices of my mouth. All feelings shall lie dormant until I will once again gather up the courage to look comfortably, and then nervously into eyes which reflect a delicate sincerity that I have never really known in its entirety, and

I

      will

   fa

          l

      l

 

                         rapidly       (when I will be brought delicately and swiftly back to

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Did I ever tell you that I got my favorite band to write a haiku about me? Well, I’m not really that special. If you filled out some odd questionnaire, you got one.

How would you like to die?I’d like to implode.

Who is your favorite person?My cat. 

a last thought before
your implosion flashes bright
who will pet Soho?

Look at the page. It’s pretty.

Busy day tomorrow. 

Study group for Lit.Breakfast with Claire.Baking vegan cupcakes.Waiting around.Going to a show.

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