does it make you sad? do you ever wish you knew her?
It’s a bit of a touchy subject in all honesty. I didn’t really mind all too much when I was younger, I guess I just never really understood what was happening. Then I became an adolescent and I started to become curious. Sometimes I’d ride by her house and catch glimpses of shadows and life which confused me. It was a thing I mostly pushed to the side a lot. It has effected my relationships with other people, especially people i’m interested in (clingyness, fear of rejection, fear of not being good enough) which all probably is a form of unaddressed post traumatic stress disorder. I wish I knew who she was like before everything became strange. I suppose I still wish I knew her. Although due to recent developments in this situation, I am left under the impression she does not want me to know her…
No, well sort of. A part in her brain died. I was very young. She thought it was for the best for me to never see her again. Unfortunately this is Adelaide and it is very small, so sometimes I see glimpses of her and then I turn around but she’s gone.
Yes, yes, yes, keep raining. I got out of the shower many hours ago yet warmth is still being retained underneath my unclothed skin. Keep raining, rain harder. Bukowski’s husky, unenthused voice is on a loop and charms my inner teenage angst, keeps me company. Since when has it been 2.08 in the morning? Time to pull the pens out of my hair and write dumb poetry that no one will ever read but in doing so, keeps me sane and keeps me alive. Reminds me of my aching humanity and my trivial emotional engagements- oh how I adore you so. It’s still 2.08 in the morning and time is passing so slow yet my thoughts are racing so fast.
Why is it that I am unable to write anything beautiful? I feel such an internal ache of inexpressible love eager to be used in a cathartic manner and yet I am completely lost for words. My constant inadequacy in written sentimentality has left me feeling somewhat nauseous with a swollen heart. However a single poorly constructed poem will not suffice- nothing I could ever write could do justice to this feeling. Perhaps it’s time to put my pen down for once and accept that this is beyond me.
I just realised that real things are always based on something facbricated or somewhat untrue, this isn't an insult, to me you have become real, and as I've tried so desperately to make everything I was about based on something real; my life has disintegrated into meaninglessness, I just want you to know you have become somewhat of inspiration to me, not the kind that creates torrents of exploding, ineffable thoughts and feelings but an inspiration nonetheless. I just feel you should know.
I wrote a lengthy response to this, however I am currently on a foreign computer in the lounge room of a house which is not my own and my inability to keep a steady hand resulted in the unfortunate erasing of the reply. However I will tell you this, with such a lack of trust in what is real, it does not surprise me that your life has disintegrated into meaninglessness. One time I fell in love with something that was not real and in a desperate attempt to make it real, it vanished. When I was no longer fixated on the reality of the situation, the thing I loved came back and now I’ve learnt that there are things far more beautiful and important than basing your life upon a distinct form of reality. I am real, but reality is limiting. I am made up of real skin and real bones and real blood just like everyone else, my bones are not based on something fabricated and my blood is not somewhat untrue. Most things are real, only miscommunication and preconceptions make things appear fabricated and untrue. I feel as if my response will let you down, however it is late and I feel confused about your concept of reality as I feel as if it differs quite a lot from my own. I would appreciate if you would respond to this, as it is provoking thoughts which I myself have not fully articulated and I am interested in what you might have to say. Regards, Jade.