before i was even one, it started: my mother said i fell from a chair and did not cry or even break my head, just reacted, as to all things, with cognitive awareness: as if it had never happened at all. i wish i could say that i came into this world with a fully opened book, pages proudly shed in their bareness, longing for the tip of a pen to hit them, but i cannot. i cannot say many things without a slightly deceitful nature creeping into heavy words, if only for the lessening of a weight on the other side. i wish to balance all things evenly, but am not surprised when the rising of one side supercedes the falling of another just as important.
when i am full of memories, it is only the bloating of my stomach that signals it, in its own warning, waiting for the dawning of present day to pop it. i wait for the hand of a clock to pinch into me with unadulterated strength, never meaning to break a bone, but always intending to tear apart freshly grown-in skin. you see, when i harden, it is for good - forever - for as long as i desire, with an intensity not known to me prior; i steal plate my skin with the hopes of it never shredding, never breaking and my vessels relax beneath their interior, sighing into their next-of with relief. when we are untouched, it is for good, but relax only with the easiness of a thing that knows when its time is coming and why - we don't question how it comes, because our eyes are internal and are therefore always looking back at ourselves.
when i say i give up, it's for good and i back down and i take the slack of my own repetition. repetitious. i don't question the passing of days because they are all one for me. when one day slants it's only slightly and only with impartiality to the next one coming, i act impartially to my part within them all, as one act is only as congruent as the one before it. i accept my hollowed state-of-being, my shortcomings as they short me in my length, all things supposable, supposed, if only i could recognise their infidelity.
from now on, i will accept that the people i love do not love me back. that when i talk to them, it is only thought, because if i shut up, it'd be for good, and they will have forgotten that i ever spoke at all. when my mouth is a faucet, gushing, i want to tell you, but you don't want to talk to me. i'll suppose a future that's viable if only in its conditioned state, even if it's not likened to my interests, and you'll never see it. you'll never want to and when i try, i will have never tried hard enough, because i can't get through to you, i can't get through to you, why the fuck aren't you trying to get through to me?
i am directionless in its most amiable form, they say, that you can go anywhere you desire without a compass. when i break into pieces they say it's easier to reconstruct yourself from broken parts. when i tell the world it's worthless, it rustles its leaves with its harmonic fascination and i can't get over how much i love the trees, but they, in their harmony, sing about how they'll never love me. i say hey, humanity's got a place too, and they tell me that it's all objective and say fuck - yes fuck - you.
i jump out of my window into a forestry scene, still within my own body, within my life: i jump out of many things, but still land on the earth, where all things are similar, until it is my time to fit beneath the earth, where maybe my eyes will see something new.
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