After a while it just becomes so difficult to keep writing. There are so many things to say, but there’s only one way to do it, it seems. Only one way that is truly communicative. If you talk to someone in person, they rush you, or you rush yourself to control the emotions that cross over their face, in waves and wrinkles. That’s not cool. Writing’s the only way I can communicate. Other ways I screw up, because I’m too cautious of saying the wrong things. Does that make me manipulative? I think it does. Hah. My Western Traditions teacher keeps talking about how women are manipulative with the use of language. I guess that makes sense. But don’t all people do that, regardless of gender identity?
I’ve tried manipulating my words before. That usually fails, poorly. It still doesn’t have the intended effect. You try impressing people with your ability to use phrases you think they’d like to hear. But they never seem to appreciate the work my mind puts in with smiles or laughs, or even careful consideration. People communicate so much through their body language, little idiosyncrasies in their behavior, words they use, words they avoid. I don’t think anyone notices that. It’s like watching the world with coke bottle glasses, or trying to catch butterflies with ungrasping hands. Do I pay attention? Not all the time. But I could tell you more about people than most. Maybe that’s because I don’t talk all the time. Maybe it’s because I’m devious and manipulative. I don’t know if my writing conveys what I want it to, but usually, most of the time, I don’t have to watch it being received by an audience.
I type. Someone eventually reads it. The end.
I wish everything in life was that easy. And no Microsoft word 2007, I will not end the previous sentence with a question mark. You’re silly.
Tomorrow it will be freezing. My sickness will be consuming (I’m actually sick, that isn’t a metaphor). I will walk slowly through my day, noticing things about people. Things that I’ll probably never get to use. Damn. I wish I had a friend I could simultaneously observe without being thought weird. People are interesting. It would suck if I never got to know any of them.
I’ve just listened to Fresh Feeling by Eels (that’s weird… it should be the eels) six times. It’s a relatively slow song, but the tone keeps upwelling, so it sounds positive, and upbeat. I love songs like that. They feel sad, but they’re more bittersweet. That’s as sad as I can get. If I listen to really depressing stuff, the kind of music college students like to put on the radio, then I’ll really lose myself.
I’m a college student. That’s weird. I still think of myself as a kid most of the time. It’s sad when I briefly think about driving home to my house with my little sister who will tell me how her day was, and a mom who will make me tuna noodle casserole whenever I ask for it, and a dad with a funny accent, who everyone thinks is cool, though I secretly think differently. When you’re a little strange, it’s good to know that there are people who will accept you for being weird, if only because they made you that way. But I live a twelve hour drive away. What an Odyssey that would be.
For some reason when I described my family, I started to cry. The diluted salt is now dancing and vaporizing on my lips. It’s really a shame you can’t go back. Because when you’re in the present, you really don’t think much. You do. You’re always doing. Why can’t things stop so you can stop? Why can’t you just enjoy being alive for a while, fully come to understand the essence of everything that kind of hangs out with you when you’re not paying attention. I try to tell myself: I am everything. I don’t know why that consoles me, but it does. Somewhere there are people who love me (and show that love with tuna noodle casserole). And if I am everything, that love poured into the everything, is with me too.
Jesus. Don’t listen to alt-rock. It’ll make you tear up and write poorly. You have to separate yourself from emotions to be able to write them. Crying doesn’t help typing. Crying doesn’t help anything. But it feels good.
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