Saturday, October 04, 2014

is that your glass heart clinking?

if I tend to write only when I'm alone, then I'm never gonna write anything again living in this damn co-op. sometimes in the shower or in the car, I have ideas, but there's so much jumbled into my head immediately stepping out of those places and into this confusion called my home. generally I really like living here, the hustle and bustle, interacting with so many different people on a daily basis, priding myself on figuring out these puzzles, these people, and getting them to talk. HA! it's true, I won't deny there's a little bit of skill there. but at the end of the day, who makes me talk? who wants to know my ins and outs, downs and ups, tos and fros? none of these people can read my subtle signals, though a couple can see the larger signs-- when I'm drinking more than enough, when I'm overly critical of something small, when I've been hiding in my room for days. and if and when they see it, it's so easy to run away, don't worry, it's nothing, I'm fine, I'll be in my room with the pillow and the cat. they leave me alone like I want them to. but you know better-- you understand the chase. you know the chase as well as I do. I'm practicing a small pursuit on all these people every day, how can they not understand? but they don't want to work on a puzzle, or find that the end reward is no good thing. I try so hard so often to be easy, kind, generous, considerate, patient, amusing, good. I try too much, I unwind the web so smooth, make it all gentle, and they don't see the handiwork. do you know how I am a new creature for every person? how I will mold to fit and nestle in your comfort zone? is it so well done that no one cares enough to talk when I've hit bottom? but this is not new, even though the place and people are. I insist on distancing myself (and my truth, and my heart, and my hurt) from even my friends, then I'm dead and dumb when they can't connect. did I make it one way? I'm convinced it's that they never ask, never ask right, don't really want to know, rather than that I am a closed door with impossible locks. they think animal rescue is my life's work and that I love cats maybe because they're cute or because I'm so good and selfless or because I'm a future hoarder of more than paper. they don't know that I love cats because I hate myself.
why does the truth always sound so dumb?

listening to: xiu xiu - ale