I feel us like a bomb under heavy water, lonely riders all only occasionally knowing that we are not lonely, not alone, not even riding but standing. In opposition, in your midst, in solidarity and enraged. We are, we do, we must endure and we endure and we do endure, all for the hope of a change, a movement barely perceptible if you are not awake at night, all night, waiting for news of a shift, this shift, any shift away from the universal no, the almighty ostritching that is everyone saying no to knowing, saying no to doing anything about what we would have no choice but to know if only we would open our eyes. I feel us like an engine with only the faintest memories of combustion– I feel us waiting to explode and desperately trying to remember how. I feel us and I wonder if I have gone insane, if it is going insane that would make a person know that they are not alone out here, that they are not the only one waiting for a yes, waiting for a sign, waiting for a voice, waiting to be a voice, waiting to stop waiting. If it is going insane that would make wanting something so badly while wanting it’s exact opposite at the same time seem like not going insane.  

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Without and within I’m becoming the epitome of empty spaces. I’m carrying on conversations with that hope of conversions becoming fainter every second beat beats time or the idea of into my heaviest head.

I’m used to being used, used to getting used to this. I used to think that I could get used to this, that I would stop feeling this knife after a certain number of stab wounds. I thought I could cover myself in scar tissue, and thereby become impenetrable. Hard. I could use the scars and marks you left behind in lieu of a metallic body, to stand in the stead of a shield. To shield me, I have raised the castle walls brick by brick, and fortified them with lies and little bits of truth wrapped around this hair and bone. I’m constantly weaving a way to be more opaque, more inside than out, more or less I’m trying like hell to become somehow less. I’ve found that I’ve been too much so many times that I have no idea how to want to be what I am. We’re supposed to be hunting for our real selves, and I want to shove the mutilated corpse of mine far enough into the deepest closet she’ll never be found, and offer you this construct instead. I want to become an illusory being, entirely false except for the tiny bits that have a truth to sell. I want to become as impossible to navigate as I find the world around me to be. I want to overwhelm to compensate for my lack of understanding and control. Above all else, I desire control. I desire what I cannot have, the oldest story in the oldest book. I am plagued by a constant doubt unlike any you’ve experienced or can name. 

 

I can’t change your mind and I can’t change that you are in mine. I can’t make this any less real for me, or any more real for you. I’m left wishing we could hold a public vote on whether you should be sorry, whether this should all have been different.