*i am afflicted by a certain maladies that absorbs all notions of excitement, passion, and purpose. it leaves life wanting. it shows everything to be futile.
*of the thousands of hours i have spent traveling between various parts of the city, i have invested much in looking into the faces of strangers. ‘resting face’ it’s called, i believe. most people are rather un-emotive. i wonder what’s there to read on me. probably bitch face.
*between micros, tempos, taxis, buses, and pedestrians, i wonder how many in this city i have crossed lives with. if but for a moment. faces shuffle around and i have no way of knowing if i’ve come across the same person hundreds of times, or if this shall be our only passing. how many stories does this city hold?
*i do, however, recognize the bus boys on my route. i wonder if they ‘know’ me, i wonder how many others they ‘know’
*i am in awe of a friend’s concern for me. the imperative my friend feels to motivate me. to make sure i don’t waste my potential. (my damn potential has been the worst thing about being me.) regardless, it leaves me in great respect of my friend
*honesty that comes across as truths that don’t hurt is a rare thing. i suppose it is slowly incubated over time and the unfolding design of specific relationships. i know it exists because i’ve had truth offered to me with no malice and such love,
“i definitely think you need to brush up your writing, but it’s your topics that are so interesting”
in an over-said, over-stated world, does there remain anything to contribute? my friends think so.
*what purpose does an idea serve if nothing is to ever come of it? if at full blossom it passes as a comment made in a forgettable conversation. (can’t that be enough?)
*”meditate” he used to tell me. but he doesn’t speak much to me anymore. and the space in my head continues to be cluttered.
*if only cleaning up after a broken heart could be done in the same fashion and time as rearranging my room, wardrobe, and seasonal clothes.
*i’m keeping my things tidy, and my nails well kept. this is me trying.
*in all the words and thoughts i vomit on my friend, i am frustrated at how limited it makes me feel. if only i could have voiced things to certain people, but they don’t want to listen. and so these thoughts, these words, they bubble over, they spill, they stain, they scar. and my vulnerabilities burrow more so in their hole.
*i think i am several years into feeling so…exhausted
*there is less comfort to find here than i had hoped
*hope is a two-faced bitch
*and so it is.