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Vague Garbage
It feels as though some part of me is about to go away forever. It will exit through the back of my skull, and will leave a large, gaping exit-wound that likely won't have any blood to offer the air. In time it will close and there will be no scars hinting at any sort of passage into or out of my cranial dome.
Because I am unable to take anything I say or think seriously as of late, everything I write must be some mixed, vaguely metaphorical slew of nonsense alluding to me, to the people I know and to the situations I may or may not actually be experiencing. It's almost comforting but then it isn't, because it isn't interesting, it isn't helping and it isn't constructive. Nobody's paying close attention unless they already were to begin with. It's hard to garner attention for one's self if one's self is also terrified of being judged, or worse, being seen as boring.
But I am boring when I'm not conflicted. Thank goodness, because I'm always conflicted over something. At that point I transcend from the boring into the annoying, and there are entirely new reasons to be away from me and entirely new reasons to keep my moods, emotions and thoughts totally to myself. But then somebody bumps into me a little too hard at the wrong angle, and, like an over-inflated balloon after encountering a sharp point, I begin to squeal audibly as everything underneath my skin comes flailing out in a stream of hot gas and empty atmospheric waste.
This morning I awoke to nothing besides the sweet sound of my cat knocking my desk lamp on to the floor, which, of course, has broken and also managed to knock my glasses on the way down, not bending their frames somehow but still scratching BOTH lenses. That's the second lamp he's broken in less than a month, and now I don't have a lamp for my computer desk. On the bright side, I got to work earlier than usual.
I had a lovely dream before I was disturbed this morning, though. I was in a cafe of sorts, in one of those dreamscapes formed entirely by the first-person view where you never actually turn to observe the people that accompany you. I knew there were friends nearby - clearly I wouldn't come to such a place by myself. And as I sat with one of my knees pulled to my chest, looking about as relaxed as I actually was and with my head full of muddled pointlessness and curious feelings of ambiguity about the validity of the world around me, I spotted the one familiar, and clearly dominant face of the dreamscape. It was Josh, Megan's old (or current I guess) lover. Nothing really happened between us. He was sitting only six or seven feet away and we happened to be facing each other. He glanced at me occasionally, pretending not to notice, all the while I simply stared at this stupid, fucking bearded face without hesitation of aversion of the eyes. Then I raised my right hand, the dominant one of course, and flipped him in the bird. I even held it in the air and moved it from side to side, to be damn sure that he would notice it.
That was the whole dream. It was great.
I think I may actually be going a little crazier than I was.
