My stomach pushes me off the bed, in and out.
Fingernails click on a plastic pen.
Blonde bangs, furry in lamp light, always frame the view.
I’m not sure of who I am, or what I should be doing.
There’s a nagging passion.
Always feeling like there’s something I should remember.
What I want is known somewhere,
And I can’t string it together in a line.
I can’t even pile it on the ground.
A mound of desire scrambled in secrets would be far better than this nothing.
Is the nagging the present?
Like looking right past the face of the friend you are looking for, did I forget that I already have what I want?
Just keep writing, I know it doesn’t juice and crunch like some authors you read. I know it sounds boring and cliche like a story put together by clicking the next suggested words on your phone. It mulls in your mouth with the same crowded feel of oat meal (how can there be so much of tastelessness?).
It’s false to say I don’t know how to be nice to myself. The truth is that I just don’t want to be. I’m the bully and the victim all wrapped up in one package. And I get to carry the drama around with me all day to engage my brain.
The nagging feeling again – are we doing this wrong?
Depending on your attitude towards finding patterns, nature can either look like chaos or perfect choreography.
And neither is wrong. Why am I taking so many pictures of myself and them staring at them trying to listen? As if that will figure out what to figure out.
I wish this human brain experience didn’t feel so guide-less and alone.
This is a journal entry from my structureless summer. I think that hearing about other people’s loneliness can help our own.