Sitting cross legged on the counter-top and letting the sounds of the street wander into my ears, while Ginsberg stares at me, melancholy from the cover.
“you aren’t trying hard enough”
He is shaking his head as he says it, because he knows how I’ve been wasting my time.
“at least, if you’re going to let the summer roll by like it happens every day as easy, write it down. at least, goddamit.”
I know he’s saying it like he’s gonna cry, and I’m gonna cry, too, but not for the same reason. maybe it is…I can’t read his mind. but it’s a soft warning, making me turn the spotlight on myself even though the cord is plugged in to the back of my head, and when it spins the hot phosphorescent glow through my eyelids, the base of my neck tightens with the pressure. the self-deprecation is amusing, I think, to the passersby. Can everyone see my pretense? my loss of purpose, of the shallow quality my day in existence has been driven to?
“no. now you’re just being egotistical. No one pays attention. Even the barista in the café who was shouting about the degradation of the whole ‘goddamn fucking universe!’ That’s the problem, see. people will fight for the grandeur because they see the results, the glory of their sacrifice. but no one loves enough beyond the fragment. the title they can place on it. ‘I’m an activist. I fight for the rights of the downtrodden.’ What the fuck does that mean? Seriously, where is the definition of your life in that sentence? Nowhere. So you say activist. That could mean any number of things. You could write pages for pamphlets on free trade wage thieving and pass them out on the corner during the sidewalk sales. But that’s not what you meant, because you’ve never worked for fair trade, you usually lend your extra time on Thursday afternoons to women’s health education services; and now people will be confused, and when you try to explain you will be misinterpreted, leading to your embattled, righteous, holier-than-the-taxi driver personal vendetta to enlighten the world. but you are bitter for it, for the weight. that the charge of the universe has been passed to you in a paper bag, instead of the bottle of wine you were promised. well, the fuck to you, it’s your own fault for taking it on. Stop complaining, and get to work.”
quite the rant, but he's right. i'm still sitting on the countertop.
she sings it for me, the reason why I kept trying with this. because I adore you. that’s all, really. the truest reason. I don’t have another one, because everything else that comes to mind is a contradiction. you don’t really fight for things the way that I do; maybe it’s because I know how fast they can be taken, how fast they are ripped away (this makes me cling, but not with my hands, or with a wailing plea; I remember everything with a fury born of grief). you don’t really seem to care either way. I’d like to think otherwise, but many better women have fallen at the feet of the apathetic fools who knew they were the lording kings of beating hearts.
I ran away. In the dark. by myself. To drift into my room and savour in my irie. I am hiding. but you gave up. I lose myself in songs and my words fight to escape soon enough, like butterflies spilling into my mouth up from my throat, but my lips are stuck tight. This is repression. I am repressing things. I think I’m having a mental breakdown of sorts, because I am questioning everything I do lately, and I feel like I’m changing so many habits out of fear that they are destroying what I want my life to be instead of what it actually IS. I don’t want to be afraid like this for the rest of my life; questioning every decision I will ever make again? I need to stop this, I’m freaking out. [district and the calming gospel of chick rock]
Because I am only out for the good ness in life, and as long as the negatives do not topple their weight over across the gracious and witty and absolute spectacular moments, everything is okay by me. perhaps I could say I am an opportunist in search of hedonism; ready to jump from the train as it curves at seventy-five miles an hour around the cliff. I will fly, and it will be like gravity evaporating as I fly towards the sun, ready to dismiss the myth of icarus. You have finally pushed me hard enough so that the energy builds beneath my bones, I take flight. I try not to hate, because it just ends up making me angrier, and then I become like a balloon about to bust. I will, at times. In the end, however, it will only be unabashed, illogical, adoration that I hold in my chest.
Oh tell me a secret and tell me a story
Lets make up plans that will never come true
This is delicious, hey thanks for the dinner
hey you know, all the stars that shoot in the sky
They're falling in love with the sun (mirah)