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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