A Collection of Spectacles


A few months of pleasantries begets almost double the time in unhappiness. If only such weight could be tossed somehow. There was once a place I can’t find anymore, of numbness and unfeeling, that I wish I could get to. Filling myself with welled up but non-reciprocally returned love will be a reoccurring theme.

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Can’t even talk, ears spread, open. I’m so in need it’s horrible. I should stop being so self-centered and so alone. I don’t know why I keep crying in your presence, but it’s probably annoying. But, sex isn’t, and I’m in need.

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Possibly seen this video twice, now that I’m thinking about it. Had it shown to me on two separate occasions. At the moment, it’s hard to remember which came first, although it’s not that important. Images are recycled and reused, thrown about, demolishing notions of authenticity and the idea of ownership. The first time was with an old high school friend (please don’t fault me for being prematurely nostalgic towards an age that’s barely passed).  We split a six-pack and she told me how removed acid can make you. We bonded over how unfeeling this place can be at times. Sometimes, I think I’m forty, worrying about things that maybe I shouldn’t, because I’m forced to. The second time was after work. I’d asked him what he was up to, if he had any plans, and then took him with me, spending half the trek home mentally preparing, and the other half reciting aloud an apologetic speech about the size and number of people within my west side hell hole. Or, maybe it wasn’t this time, and I’m confusing the moment with another. Memory is the accumulative debauching of events as they occur, as our minds are incapable of accurately recalling the shape, sequence, size, depth and color, of a point in existence. He showed me this montage, and I asked myself why we hadn’t slept together yet, because that’s where my mind always immediately goes. Two bottles of wine later, one for each of us. Our brief friendship consisted of me ranting endlessly, then becoming remorseful for talking so much, and then begging him to tell me anything. All he wanted to do was go back to Greece, battered in many ways, but simplistic. The last time I saw him, unattractive machismo took hold, and I made his friend feel obligated to consume an enormous amount by outdrinking him. Throwing up in his bathroom, I was stuck trying to smother the fact that my feminine frame had quivered beneath its own curves, betraying me. On the couch adjacent to his, I’m regretting things with my mouth for the millionth time. I am told something that the opposite sex tends to remind me often, that I’m a part of this species and none other, that it is within our “nature,” if one buys the idea of an overriding central dogma which conditions our behavior, to be unsure, to make questionably moral decisions that are coupled with a cursed mind that deems them questionable, to regret, to miss someone, to overreact, and that to be so sorry all the time, to be so harsh on oneself, leads to a caged existence.

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I keep having dreams that I’ve quit my job. They make me uneasy, nervous, but slightly hopeful.

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