I miss you, though I don't even really know you.
I think about you every day; everything reminds me of you.
I don't know why I can't stop remembering, why somehow
everything has a connection to something you wore or said or did or someplace you went.
We hardly spoke, never had a conversation.
I ignored you, you ignored me.
And yet, even then, I always thought of you.
I used to pray for you every day because
you were throwing your life away,
your life with so much meaning and purpose,
because I wanted you to know better,
because I knew you were capable of so much more,
and I wanted you to see it.
I think about you often. I can't help it.
I don't know why I feel this way,
don't know if there's a reason.
I still see your potential,
though I don't know if you've changed.
I think of you every day,
every single day,
And I miss you.
I miss you more than I've ever missed anyone, ever.
But if I see you, I might just say hello, or nod and smile,
or--if you don't see me first, I might not say anything at all,
and avoid an encounter, because I'm quiet and shy,
and I'd have nothing to say.
These feelings are ridiculous, I know,
and perhaps it's an idea I miss.
How can I miss so much someone I don't even know?
I'm reading The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker. So far, it's interesting. I'm on page 19, which is the first page of chapter two.
I love books. I love libraries and I love bookstores, especially ones that sell used books or books gone out of print.
When I was younger, like 8-12, I would take out 30+ books from the library, and do nothing but read all day. I remember one time when I took out so many books that I couldn't carry them all, but had to pile them on the floor and push them to the counter to check them out. I remember, when I took those books back (the next week, I think) the annoyed look on the librarian's face. She obviously was not looking forward to the prospect of checking in all those books.
Coles had books on sale for $2 today. I bought The Art of War by Sun Tzu and The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet. Can't wait to read them.
I got up a few minutes ago, and a verse of poetry came to my head. And it was pretty good, too. The problem is that I couldn't write it down just then, and then I got distracted because I forgot I had been mopping the kitchen floor and waiting for it to dry, and now that it was dry I needed to put the kitchen mats back into place and finish the dishes, and when I sat down at the computer again, I forgot completely what it was. It started out like this:
Forget the past
And then it went on, for three more lines. But I can't for the life of me remember what the rest of it....
Forget the past, for it is gone
...solitude and pain
This isn't it, but this comes close to the general idea of it:
Forget the past , for it is gone
The days of solitude and pain
Will never come again.
This happens sometimes. Like when I was walking to my house through the alleyway at night, looking up at the moon through the trees, a beautiful line of poetry came into my head. But I had no pencil, no paper, no way to make the thought substantial enough to stay in my memory... By the time I made it into the house, I couldn't really remember it. The general idea was there, but I forgot the exact wording, and I tried to make it work but it just wasn't the same. So I gave up and just left it.
I have nothing left to say. I've always been terrible at conclusions, whether they be to stories, essays, poems--even just saying goodbye. The beginnings are usually more concrete and clear than the endings, which usually reiterate things already iterated or just trail off into something vague and uncertain.
So, um, I'm just going to go now.
I feel like my life is falling apart. Things have been this way for so long, as long as I can remember, and its been bearable. But now, its been getting less and less so, and something has just got to change.
I feel like everything is unraveling. Whatever it was that kept everything together for so long seems to be running out. Maybe its just because now I'm older, and I can see that things haven't changed, and now I have a way to get out.
I found this poem online today that I really like.
Jack in the Box
Never mind how your oversized
crimson nose sits squarely
in the centre of your pasty face
like obese, obstinate royalty.
Perhaps it is the mischievous
glint behind your glassy eyes,
or the lopsided slant of your
toothy grin that gets most
people cackling with glee.
Some, the more banal ones,
may hoot and chortle at the
frilly gag that is your gaudy garb,
while there are those who need only
look at your fool’s visage and see
the silent desperation
behind your bobbling head
to split at the seams or go over
the edge. In cheery spirits,
they all walk away in a stolen
pocket of momentary bliss,
and nobody remembers you sit,
wound and tense in the darkness
of your box, because you are cursed
to oblige, to rise to the occasion
of warming with open arms,
and your travesty of a smile,
those whose cold, callous
hands coax you from your cage,
not because you love them,
but just because you must.
By Christian Ylagan
Just because I laugh and I smile doesn’t mean that I am happy, it might mean that I smile because when I do nobody asks questions and that when I laugh, you assume everythings is alright. I don’t spoil anybody’s day, and no one knows how I feel but me. What I feel like yelling at the top of my lungs and crying my heart out, I might just go into my room and use music to drown out my thoughts. When you say something to me that is terribly insensitive, and makes me want to explain to you because you don’t understand, I don’t and I just ignore you, bercuse I could pour out my heart and you would laugh and think it’s a joke, and not stop, never stop, becuse you just don’t get it. I’m not selfish. I just want one person to get how I feel, to accept me for exactly who I am and still love me. I’m sick of talking to people who aren’t listening. I hurt myself becuse I’m hurting, and what you are doing is hurting me more, and because I have nowhere else to go, and I feel that I can’t do anything else. I hurt myself because sometimes you make me feel worthless, and I don’t know why I should stop because you keep making me feel this way. You never change. I keep this all to myself, and its fine. No one wants to know the truth, and they’re content believing a lie. I’m not ok. I’m not ok. I hate when you say these things. I wanted to die once because of all this. It’s not a joke. I don’t know what else to say.