kelland

Something inside of me has gone astray. I sit in the complacent seat I never wished to visit. You aren't taking me anywhere, and I just want to stay here, glued to the upholstery, limbs limp like dead weight floating offshore. I am looking out the window like it's suddenly going to show me an answer that's been waiting there for me all along. I want to pull my hat over my eyes and never have to look up again, to any fucking piece of plastic flesh that shows me the least little bit of attention. Please don't, by the way. Because if you do, there is no return. I will reel you in and you will never escape my heart. My throat will swell and my nose will blush and this confinement will be the death of me, and you could never possibly know. There is a finality I like to avoid and there is a commitment I wish to possess here in my hands, in my tingling wet palms. Lately, I find myself saying the same kinds of things and making the same kind of jokes and avoiding the same kind of topics. I just want to say what's in my heart, if that's at all possible.

I sometimes wonder how I lost my lust for televised repetition. And how I began to lose interest in acting out the lives of Barbie dolls. And how my sister and I stopped pretending to be movie stars and started pretending to be rock stars. I wonder where the routine goes. Where the simplicity goes. I sit on a Saturday afternoon in the coffee shop with you, admiring the disciplined schedule of a group of boys who arrive to play cards and depart ways hours later, only to return the very next day to pursue the very same game. How is it that some people are numbly content with utter nothingness while the rest of us are unhappy in our constant search for substance? I often thirst for the days of imagination and materialism and long, dirty, sweaty summer days baking outdoors. Please give me my innocence and my lack of cynicism and my underdeveloped skin. Please give me the courage I need to forget what I hate.