A Ferocious Missive, Written From the Basement of My Brain

Friends and well-wishers: Go away.

You have more important things to do than to worry about me. And you’re already doing them.

I don”t mean to draw your attention to me — but I do. I always do.

It’s hard not to be the most important thing in my life. After all: I’m me.

What an entire shit it all is.

What a strange and stupid struggle.

What did we do to deserve such an interesting life? There were other possibilities less interesting that deserved more attention.

All of these are in-the-moment observations designed to keep the reader abay of the thing which is actually bothering me:

I miss the me who used to be me.

The realization is that that me was who he was because he was with another person.

I know: you’re crying a concerto of who-gives–a-shit? for me.

Luckily, very small finger movements of mine make small black scratches on a white space, which are words on digital non-paper, and they exist whether you read them or not.

Until the very moment I post this, I’ll be thinking about deleting it,

She exists completely in my mind, except for the fact that she’s real.

It must be nice for her to know she has her own life entirely more dimensional than how I think of her. But, to be honest I don’t think of her.

I only think about her.

I can only think of an idea. The reality is too painful.

People are too real. Why do they insist on being so real?

A while later:

I’m making chiasmic tap-tap patterns on my desk with my glass of bourbon. Tap-tap left. Tap-tap up. Tap-tap right. Tap-tap down. None of this makes a difference.

My tics are legion, but hidden little things.

Lines and pines is all I’m good for.

Care and leeway is all I want.

My thoughts are no more than barm, and my soul is no more than lees, and only alcohol separates the two.

Oh, who has a soul? Not me.

Souls are for the soulful.

Souls…are for the soul full.

Strutting through the telegraph rain on a city night. A radio-song heavy with history. The taste of this or that; food is life, is memory. Sleep.

She owns them all.

Sign your life’s experience over from Mine to Ours, and when Ours disappears, it takes Mine with it.

Nobody gets half of something that doesn’t exist anymore.

This whole shout is a disgrace: I shouldn’t be talking about any of it.

The thing is…

The thing is that the temple of our mind is a lonely worship. We’re always looking to expand the religion.

But am I talking about me, now? Or am I talking about Her?

Sometimes, what’s the difference?

Ah, well. Ah me, ah my.

I might as well be a child again, the way I hurt and limp and complain.

If you see me, and talk to me, I do an amazing impression of a human being. If we talk about this small and that large, know this: I’m lying. I’m lying because I’m not telling you what I’m thinking always, always.

The truth is, I’m thinking: Where is she? How is she? What is she doing?

What went wrong?

What a lone thing it is to be alone. What a careful thing it is to be full of care. What a…

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