It’s come to my immediate attention that despite my attempt to ignore it, this world is not mine. I don’t fit, or perhaps I can’t bear to take responsibility for the way things are, so I pretend I’m alien.
This world isn’t yours either.
It’s the loss of perspective. No sense of proportion. The appropriate distortion–
I feel the promise soaking out of my being into my writing, I’m lending so much to these works of mine that I think there may be nothing left for you once I’m finished. I’ve suffocated most presences in my life and have replaced them with my own.
In such an infinite way it’s almost accidental.
I don’t let myself feel the same amount of negative things anymore, they are stifled effectively by my big bad brain. I keep saying this to people, about everything, including myself, in hopes that I may one day believe it.
…but there is no way around an intrinsic flaw.
I am some replacement for my former self, an autonomous machine set to resemble what I’ve always been, and feel none of it when it’s happening. I guess that’s the only thing that feels wrong in my life, that I don’t feel enough, if at all. This has nothing to do with caring, consideration, compassion or love. Just an expanse of conditions and circumstance.
…it’s fine really.
More and more I am finding that being a good person has more to do with what you will put up with obligingly and less to do with honest intentions. I am so scattered between dreams, dramas, loves, and places. And I know I need to make some urgent choices between them. It’s sad, but you can only live a lie for so long.
I wish I didn’t seem like a liar. I’m sorry if I do.