What do you think is the character of your sinking? I know what it feels like, yet I am only able to feel it once it has progressed enough to hurt you. What are the little things that unsettle the foundations of your sighing smile? How do they accumulate? For they assemble often, as shadows without the blocking of the light.
Your smile lasts no longer than a moment, and rarely do you smile in the privacy of your simply being. You rush toward loving as a parched horse to water, you inject yourself with the stuttering primacy of voiceless conversations. You write, you read, only to escape. Do you really love the things you do, or are you addicted to improving the arrangements of your echo chambers? There is never a moment in which you create happiness for yourself, and the loneliness of your silence is a weight your shoulders have widened to carry.
You imagine your imperfections, and superimpose your perfections on the polished highball glass. You are often lost in futures that you conjure to remove yourself from your present. You’re a liar, a thief of the private languages of others and the world. What you call inspiration is the subtle thievery of cliché that you explode raucously in the dead of night. Your space in the hearts of others is determined not by you but by their fleeting curiosity of the quirks you shamelessly perform in lieu of being.
What is real about you? You glorify your sadness, package it as a war story. You sell what you understand to be your cleverness, and pray that you are paid in bewilderment and in praise.As you hunger for pity, you imagine words as your anchor when all you do is throw that which belongs to others into sorry sacks and call that ballast. Why do you even write? Why do you pretend that there is something in you that nobody else possesses, that there is a peculiarity in the shape of your restlessness that makes you interestingly unique? Why do you convince yourself of these things and then engage in conversations and situations as unreal as the kind you blatantly criticize?
You imagine that you are better looking than you are, hoping that the unfitness of your frame has been glorified enough in the language of your generation to appear appealing, or even uncared about. You find your confidence in aiming too low for the love you receive, and if given otherwise, it passes by you as a cart of food does a blinkered, anosmic horse. You wonder about this, as if you know and understand this, as if the knowledge of your actions presupposes your betterment as a person. You long to feel the touch of another, yet refuse to offer of yourself the same trust that is sometimes afforded to you. You pretend to love, you play with hearts as instruments that your own unskilled hands have wrought, and unsatisfied by the music, toss them away.
You are a traveler in the mind, and you tell yourself you desire stability. You construct narratives from the longing of others, having none of your own. You call yourself a vessel, a receptacle, and yet you are but a cherry-picking fool. It is true that people love you, yet you make this difficult for them in the prospect that they might one day leave your company. And often, when they do, you write them into the cabinet of your posterity, you lie and besmirch the purity with which they loved you. You tell yourself the opposite, and while committing your memories to the shape of words, you write in a language you cannot understand and hope that your fingers remember the placement of the keyboard in the dark.
You play victim and victor, unable to settle on your failure to come to decisions. You hide and poeticize your fears, you think that your loneliness is a weapon working both for you and against you, when the truth is that it cares as little for your clarity as you care to give it the time and space to grow you. You replace vulnerability with carefully crafted words and trick the world into believing that they are the same thing.
You spend the time and money, privilege, history and memory given to you in the absence of your own participation in and responsibility for its implications. You claim not to adhere to personality, and yet you do: you are a careless wanderer, a silent fool who remains silent knowing that his speech will confirm his idiocy. And in lieu of the truth, you treasure stories that bear little upon the realities that surround you, for the coward in you has long since won the battle for your soul.
Note: Painting by Marcel Witte