I’m Really Only Interested In Your Art

Ribcage rejections. Realistic reactions. High functioning dysfunctional-ist. <-too ironic | too apparent, blatant and obvious. The subject matter is muddy. Opaque. Cloudy skies blot out the North Star so the direction of this becomes futile/frivolous. Un-understandable drivel that only makes sense in the mind of the writer. I’m getting there, and am fully aware that this isn’t my easiest, smooth sailing, systematically descriptive kind of writing (if you could call it that; Thesaurus is doing me no justice) but I’d like to speak frankly, not frantically, and let’s see if I can separate and associate between the two.

I know not what I do, only what you say, and the way your actions speak; two familiar yet contradicting things. Excuse me if I don’t log back into the world’s most boring dialogue, shifting ever so slowly to some kind of soliloquy or internal-narrative monologue. Performance poetry comes to mind, but the kind devoid of all aesthetics, punishing the listener in a way that’s not quite fully comprehensible; lost in a swarming train station type anxiety. Let’s have some standards for conversations, as you reply and say: how about you have some standards for this confusing shit you’re typing. And to that, touché.

Is It Obvious That I Don’t Have A “You” To Write About:
When I think about the ever-dreadful, missing puzzle piece, all-encompassing and omnipresent ‘you‘ that everyone seems committed to compulsively write about, just about everywhere I look – loving, lusting, hating and saying-things-I-should’ve-said-when-we-were-together – I realize I don’t believe we’ve ever met. Maybe some mirages at coffee shops, a couple dissolving glances on sunset beaches, a few long nights of seclusion, but nothing more than a moment, a shooting star of a second. (Let’s throw out some more maybes). Or maybe I missed it already. Maybe our souls were searching for one another but were like two astroids in separate solar systems. Or maybe the arrow/spear/lance or whatever barbaric medieval weapon we’re using now just didn’t puncture deep enough or was slightly off aim. It’s disappointing that subconsciously the main reason why all this may-be rattling around in my head to begin with is because of selfish intentions, so I could use ‘you‘ to create the fraction of art that is fiction to me, currently.

Jazz music plays, betraying its calming vibe as it harshly bounces with amplified echoes in this bathroom stall I type in. I wrote these words in five different locations. A collaboration of thought patterns from various venues. In actuality it says more about my impatience and lack of uncut-flow than deliberate creative style. Noncommittal headlines instead of detailed articles. Sketching the outlines of thoughts rather than delving into them whole heartily, divulging true beliefs via painstakingly sitting down in one umbrella-like, all-inclusive session and flushing things out fully. And in turn, turning this out to be a combination of several different subjects, situations and obscure topics (sharing very few common threads) that I’m (weirdly) too attached to to erase/delete, though I’d be lying if I were to say the keyboard key isn’t awfully tempting.

Accumulations of everyone’s interpretations,
accepting what they’re projecting,
obsessed with the stress of trying to impress,
none of them suit you.
Good luck making sense of any of this.

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