It’s difficult to explain. My imagination’s becoming so vivid.
I can’t stop thinking about her, as usual. Same paranoid shit going on, with delusions about my role in other peoples’ lives, moods shift like motor-powered bricks, and I’ve stopped drawing, suddenly. I wake, and over the course of my “day”, I see everything dissolve around me, and I wake up later to see it happen again. My head is heavy. My muscles are stiff. My pillow stinks. The air is wet when it’s hot outside, and the floor sticks to my feet. Sometimes I rub my arms to make them feel warm, but my hands are soft and weak, like a sheltered girl’s hands, and I force myself to stop at the thought of this. My face has the textre of freshly shined leather, and it feels like a twenty-four hour rash, which it fucking is. Every single thought that enters my head fires me back, into an event from the past, when I go through the motions of things I remember doing and saying, and it always involves her.
Why do I still think about her so much? Can’t it register in my head that she’ll never have feelings for me? It doesn’t fucking stop, even when I think it does. When I think I’ve ridden myself of the feeling, or when I think I’ve found a way to distract myself, or latch it onto somebody else, it’s still there, wrapped around her.
It certainly doesn’t help to avoid typing her name.
In my head, I borrow or invent situations that might test my ability to prove something to myself, but they’re not real. Imagining that I’m of some worth, because I can predict what I expect of myself doesn’t prove shit, nor would it prove anything to occur in real life. I’m a sad, pathetic, lonely old man at age seventeen, and I’ll probably be this way for a very fucking long time.
I’m about to fall asleep in front of this machine. I remember when I used to dream about love, when I knocked out of it. What happened to that? When did I stop sleeping and filing away to a place or time when I felt comfortable and happy? It was an escape from whatever the hell it is I face, here, but that never happens anymore. Where did the dreams go?
Everything in the room is dark and dull, covered in lint and dust, full of insects racing and squirming to get on top of eachother, and this pair of eyes can see everything just in that condition. I try not to look at her, when I get the chance to, for they’re scarce these days, because I’d hate to see her that way. Her approach to viewing life, as I remember them from quite a while ago, are childish, like the kids who’ve just found out that nearly all of fastfood is made of dead animals. She dislikes the thought of dead humans, but rushes at the chance to make an insect die. Who can be so demoralized? Nearly all of us are. I eat meat, I’ve no shame in that, and I know that I wouldn’t have it in me to survive without the conventions I have today, but I feel guilty. It doesn’t really matter what anybody else thinks of what I do or say, but I’m driven to make my thoughts seen, as if I think it’ll matter. There was a time when I thought it would matter if the most important person saw what I was thinking, but I know it doesn’t matter. If my thoughts are nothing, and they are all I have that I value, then why do I continue thinking? My feelings obviously only matter to me, so why do I bother with them? As I type, I’m indulging a strong emotional movement, and I’m crying, but it wouldn’t matter, would it? There are times when I say “I want to die,” or “somebody kill me” alloud, and I don’t know why. In response to finding myself say these words, I ask myself why I did, also alloud, and find that I’m talking to make it clear to any observers that I didn’t know what I was doing, and realize that even if somebody were paying attention, they would’n't care. Who would bug the place where I live? Who would follow everything I do? Who would watch a simpleton with delusions of grandeur yell at himself and pound on his skull every day for fifteen years since his arrival in… ?
If what I feel for her is just a crush, like everyone’s gotten into the habit of calling it, and I’m not really feeling love, I fear the day I actually know the feeling. I don’t think my heart could take it. I’m soft and weak. My defense is a ploy, meant to look like something built to withstand, but the only thing keeping me safe from myself is… shit, I can’t think of anything.
