Season Of Indifference


Okay, there’s no joke, only frustration that my PR fact sheet won’t write itself and that the volume in my headphones is so loud but I need it to be this loud in order to attain some semblance of academically-minded zen and besides, the tune on loop is “Where I End And You Begin,” so really, are things that bad?

The answer is yes, because the answer is always yes, because my patience frays like the bottoms of too-long jeans. I know I should’ve done this earlier, should’ve done my research and typed everything up instead of watching “Homeland” and Tumblring. Even now, I know I should be writing up corporate information instead of typing up another self-absorbed entry here, but goddammit, my mind is stuck at an impassé (is that phrasing redundant?) and my toes curl at the thought of confronting the proverbial boogeyman in the back of my mind.

IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN, AS IT ALWAYS DOES, AS IT ALWAYS WILL, and my eyes begin to water just thinking about the prospect of the heartache, the heartbreak, the hesitation and frustration and endless mental pacing, the dread of confrontation and the fluttering of anticipation, the everything and nothing and anything and “no seriously, anything?” and the inevitable crumbling of a feeling balanced precariously on the notions of desire and dreaming.

I refuse to give in. It really is a joke, isn’t it, the constant chasing and swooning and bewilderment and desperation. Okay, maybe not the last one, because I’m at least conscience of the fact that this won’t happen, this can’t happen, this never happens, so I’m just going to ride this out like I’ve ridden everything else out and I won’t think about it because I can’t think about it and because this fact sheet isn’t going to write itself and I have to be up at 9 tomorrow morning (hahahaha so early, right) so I can go to aerobics because I can’t afford to miss another week of class, even though I’m taking it pass/fail, which is ridiculous because hello, how do you pass or fail aerobics, you either do it or you don’t, and wait that actually makes a total amount of sense.


I would scream, or curl up into a little ball on my couch and listen to “Videotape” on repeat, but there are so many people in this apartment right now that if I did either, I’d probably get weird looks and cautious concern. And there’s nothing to be worried about here, I’m perfectly fine, just fine fine fine fine fine if I repeated that any more the word would lose all meaning.

That word has lost all meaning.

I’m spinning, freefalling, and part of me thinks that this is just how I operate, for worse and for worse, that I’m somehow not a complete person unless my emotions are in flux and my mind is as scrambled as a hearty breakfast.

That doesn’t make sense. Fuck, you know what I mean, whoever you are, and if you don’t, well, fuck, what does it matter to you anyway. Huh. HUH?

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry to you and myself and to the emotional autonomy that I can’t seem to pin down. I’m really not this sad in real life. I’m really not. I’m really really really not.

And typing that over and over again will make it true, right?

(Image: Untitled by Ryan Kenny)


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