orangey sodapop (smercy) wrote in muffinsandjelly,
orangey sodapop

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letter to someone that I won't send

[originally posted: february 10, 2005, 05:32]

I took apart the keyboard of my computer today, down to all of the little pieces. and I looked on it, all bare and open with its hinges left to scrutiny. it was all black and white and that precise shade of dark grey that’s like a forty-five degree angle. I’m on my thirty-sixth day of inertia, have decided to reteach myself how to sleep. there is something not glowing right, on the teevee it’s all black and white and fire burning pure yellow. when you were here I wasn’t sure of what to say to you, kept my eyes glued to the sidewalk and hands in my pockets. if you had asked, I would have said it was because the weather was cold and I had left my mittens inside, but it was just like our wrists were tied together with dental floss (the waxy mint kind in all those strands) and I couldn’t figure a way out. it’s like the wool sweater I wear over t-shirts even though I shouldn’t, the one that only bothers me in the convenient times when nobody’s watching. and I keep thinking that it’s the last time I’ll see you, and not for any specific circumstance, but that you gave me a book and I never return those, and I think you know. I keep it unread next to my pillow, and when I wake up it’s crept under my sheets and sleeping next to me like an errant lover, all of its pages warm and ready to be read. I will deny it again, this time after I creep into bed after half-past five and everything’s getting ready to unravel. and when I think back to when I was a little kid and never bothered to tie my shoes when I was told, it never mattered. I wish it wasn't like everything was gone. so maybe this is one of those transitions, prying off all the keys of my keyboard and clearing all the dust from underneath. sometimes I feel like an awkward animation, something done in the barest parts of laziness, the scenery doesn’t move until I need to interact with it. I feel mindless at nights, but when I’m two-d everything is flattened and then intensified, all of the pain with none of the texture. my knees ache for sitting in this same spot all morning, afternoon and later, the only reason I chose this couch was for the back. and I feel this deep sorrow now that I never learned how to record cassettes, lost like me with all of these digital things that are far more functional. is it so bad that I’m not useful? I sit and write a couple of sentences, listen to songs and thing about things that I should’ve already figured out. it’s all different viewpoints on the same thing, I think, when my mind isn’t so scattered that I forget lyrics to songs I already know or how many knuckles are on my hands (it’s twenty-eight, by the way) and I will swallow back chokes on sobs that I shouldn’t be crying, in the empty rooms where the shadows mock my company and nobody would be around to hear anyways. I don’t think that I’ll ever meet anybody that’ll find all of my frayed edges to soothe, I am trying to be practical, all black and white and different shades of color. if they weren’t working, I’d say that my hands were broken, but they at least have a purpose. and in all this solitude, they’re getting sensitive for nothing and I’ll find out tomorrow that all of this calmness was wasted. it’s like the double takes, play the beginning of a song in your promo then play the video immediately afterwards to produce the sense of familiarity. I can imagine being out of here, and nothing else. soon I’ll be checking into one of those cheap dim hotel rooms, falling onto the creaky bed and feeling something, or else I’ll be walking down some new sidewalks and hiding from somebody else who’s staring at me like I’m a cracked porcelain vase they found an attic. after everyone I will ever know has died, and my books are packed off to be sold in some yard sale or used book store; will all of the little bits of my skin and pen marks that have fallen into them still hold me within it? if I had a soulmate, he’s already dead or has found someone else, the exclusivity has gone and I don’t ache for it like I used to. if I were a stained glass window, what would I be? forgotten. probably all dusted over in some inconvenient spot in one of those churches that has closed down to everything and is just sitting around with no rebirth, never useful in any sort of function, dulled with shadows for bedmates. and I’ll of course have the dreams where somebody will hold me close to their body and stroke my hair over and over until I finally feel better, but then I wake up and this damn wool sweater is still itching and my eyebrows hurt from all the furrowing and I still feel terrible. the loss afterwards, that sharp spike in my gut that’ll rip all the feeling out for a full three seconds, is so unbearable that I curl up into the smallest me possible and wish that I’ll never fall asleep again. and of course the next day it’s the same, with the day after that too, and somebody said something about an endless march of time, but it’s more like the twang of a rubber band against your wrist done over and over again. I’ve spent the last five weeks practicing my minimalism, but it’s got me so vulnerable I can’t breathe unless my head’s in the right spot. and if I saw you again, maybe it would be better, and I won’t ask ‘cause it probably won’t. and with my neurosis, it’s the difference between parts and pieces.
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