THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I'm annoyed that I'm not paranoid. That I'm not panicking. I'm annoyed that finding good teacups is more important that having friends, than doing anything.
I would like desperately to make some sort of stupid rash decision- To get angry or hopeless and do something ridiculous, do something I'd really regret. I'd like to feel upset about social interaction, I'd like to feel hysterical that I am alone and want someone else to help me. I want to give a fuck about something pointless. Useless.
I'd like to not know that I am made of stone and have some doubts.
I'd like to know why everyone else does it, I'd like to buy into something I didn't make-
Forever the nihilist, forever the vague romantic.
I feel like its an illness- That everybody's read some pamphlet I didn't get hold of- I feel like, where one place turned everyone else into stupid and unambitious, drunk and giving blowjobs- Made everyone beige and apathetic- It ripped all the skin off the universe for me.
Living with every gesture done in some degree of fury- I live vicariously, and all the real life feels like stories, all the stories eat away at every action, hold me in the dark, protect me in the light-
And I'm left with not one single doubt of a general plan, of inevitability. I could describe every single thing you are, finish all the sentences you've never said- I could do it all without distraction or desperation, but simple fact. You are what you are, I'm just not sure where...
And so I wish I was anxious or excited for the experience and not just for a step closer towards what I actually care about, without knowing I will let all of this fall about the way sides.
I miss you, I love you, I want one day to dream again about your hands-