Today is Wednesday and a woman in front of me is wearing beautiful clogs. I am sitting at artis. I resent the contextualization of self. I appreciate the resentment, denounce its vitriol, celebrate its articulation. I stare hard today. I journal because Emma tells me to, because she cares, because I have told myself to one too many times to not actually listen to her caring. I put down dribble and pick up drabble. I hurt.
I drink my third coffee, tighter longer splatter barrel. Not in the diarrheal sense. I splatter inside like patinball gun test fires at soft tarps, pellets that shouldn't explode but do, splendidly. I narrate to myself and I wish I could remember what is said. I speech act the hardness, the severity of my brow, and the tenderness of my eyes, I narrate it into being. Before it was doing, he only was, automaton.
I think does it hurt to see my face? Does it help? Does it intrigue? Is the cause of my affect of cautionary interest, or willful ignorance? It is both to me. Probably neither to others. Eyes are tools and I use mine well. It's okay for the mechanization of self to be hard.
Returning to context: I give my own context. I give it with my existence, show not tell, -- take a second. -- I do not, -- no. -- -- I should not explain myself. It is weak. -- Thank you for sharing.
"Again, I turn and run from the precipice of discovery."
Here, I put myself into darkness, the negative light of the screen. This line calls out to me. I wonder if it has value or if it only has power. It's not for me to decide, is it? It certainly captures the motions, the edge, the boundary, the turn, the run, the curiosity, the unexpression, repression and regression. Failure is simply too dangerous.
I'm tired. Put me down. Not yet, once I do I will be back to the place where I was before I began going away from that place. Interesting. This serves as a means of escape, that much I knew, but a pulling away from a base-state implies Wildcard, implies create your own space and get sucked right back to theirs. It would explain why I have had less trouble being myself. Oh okay. It's making more sense now. Why I want to write all the time. Because it feels quite good, quite... unburdened. Be yourself here, nobody else.
I cannot be myself elsewhere to the page because there they are looking. Okay. Not who I was addressing I think but this is helpful. Thank you for responding. They are judging you outside of here and therefore inside of here is a protective space. That makes sense. Touching the mouth, touching the face, leaning over, looking around, pausing. I am very into these little things because they are so innocent. They are stammers of the suckle. Perhaps this is what writing feels like. A mother's difference. Eyes and breath intensely attent to the next everything. The next word as important as the next glance, every distraction suddenly muted. Wowzers, have I cracked the code? Is the attention I pay my self expression when writing so relieving to my parts that my unquenchable desire to be seen felt and heard is for a brief and sometimes prolonged moment eased?
How peculiar it is to write across from and out into the uncaring, how peculiar to keep hope while accepting indifference demonstratively. How peculiar to feel that the void will fill back into me once I click publish. How peculiar, to be so out of control, to feel my last breath creeping up and out of me. Death. How good to see you here again.
Show me your face? Poppa?? death. ah. Now there's a dead man walking. If I end it here, will you stick around for a couple minutes for me to start a new something? I'll still be here to listen. Oh, it's not about you not wanting to stay, it's about the pull. Okay. Well. I can empathize with the pull, I know the pull.
Pull easy father.
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