A Collection of Spectacles


Very few go through life feeling, it seems. It’s as if I’m attached to Earth’s umbilical cord, emotion is stronger, things seem to upset me more. Joy is comparable to euphoria, its opposite is felt with the intensity of a bludgeoning.

I speak with her frequently and among the topics we discuss are how we think, how we conceptualize. We suffer from the same “analytical disease,” a rare illness in which the afflicted views the world with a magnifying glass, defects in human character are blown up to macrocosmic proportions. I have never been sick around her, however. The exhausting energy normally guided towards assessing others is used on trying not to fall into this disgusting rut. This is only because she is respected and I need to believe that there is at least one person whose faults aren’t adornments.

Enjoying life normally is not pleasurable when I have to live on the outskirts of misanthropic hell, and I need the same amount of energy (albeit, guided differently) to move out of limbo, if just for a bit.

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In suburbia, as a preventative measure against getting my shoes dirty, I walk in the street and look ahead in order to avoid oncoming cars. He walks on the paved blocks and looks behind occasionally with a casual air, to prevent someone from sneaking up from behind. 

“You’re going to love it. No. Really. My son’s been there for four years now and he thinks it’s great.”

The moment I set my bags down, I’m going to weep with sincerity, because I will have the luxury of doing so for the first time. I’m going to unload traces of animosity, unconsumed passions, and leave them behind. 

Thinking about going already.  Anticipating something that’s still a while away. 


I’m already elsewhere. 

I am going where it is loud all the time and the streets are always lit.

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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
of sorts.

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