'everything is great when you don't give a shit', he told her 'also, forgiveness is a virtue', and so much she admired him that she absorbed his words, and lived them.

he was late and she forgave it

he left the bed unmade and she forgave it

he forgot to call and she forgave it

so much convenience, he thought, until one day he got on one knee and told her baby i love you and she replied

i forgive you.

how does one write

when one cannot feel? 

What a pity, i am thinking

to be unable to ride the rush of exhilaration

and to instead find oneself

devoid

of emotional gradient.

ALL SORTS OF YAYNESS IS FLOODING MY BRAIN I AM IN SUCH A GOOD MOOD WOW I AM SO CHEERFUL I DONT BELIEVE IT GUYS I AM SPILLING HAPPINESS GUYS

I AM SO CHEERFUL I DONT BELIEVE IT

IT IS ON, I TELL YOU

SO IN LOVE WITH LIFE AND ALL IT HAS TO OFFER

SUCH DELIGHT IN DISORDER

FALLING

INTO

EXHILARATION 

and that was the moment i realized- happiness is not a pill you can take or a playlist you put on. it is something you consistently work at. do you understand what i am saying? the small things in life can ignite moments of happiness but it is not happiness.it is a temporary lift out of the despondency of your everyday life. a state of happiness is something you struggle towards everyday. you make a consistent and conscious choice to see the good and but simultaneously acknowledge the bad in every situation. there are people who say that ignorance is bliss. now let us consider that statement. bliss. do you really want to be associated with that word? does it sound like an intelligent word? you know what i think of when i think of the word bliss? i think of a fat and stupid pig on ecstasy or some other trippy drug, waiting for its turn to be slaughtered. there are nuances  that color every word, for example- i think of the word, exhilarated, and i am reminded of laughter and youth. i think of the word indulge and i immediately associate it with chocolate melting on your tongue and eyes closed and a small sigh, the exhalation of your entire being. by the same logic i think of the word bliss and i think of a pig. I'm not even going to start on the word 'ignorance', which doesn't even afford the person it is used on the luxury of being obscure, or even plain stupid. ignorance is not happiness, it is the absence of knowledge, it is a void ignited by stupidity, a drought of sadness in which you assume happiness. 

i know i said i wanted my life to be like a movie

but i think i meant some trippy chick flick

you know the kind where there is warm sparkling sun and just enough wind and the main characters have perfect hair and dont sweat and of course the female lead wants to be an artist, or a writer, they all do, and she has a perfect cat which doesnt poop onscreen nor cough up hairballs and of course she runs into some perfect guy with a british accent, ok, not perfect, he probably has Issues but its the kind that makes him seem sensitive and interesting and there is always something a little bit irresistable about a lost cause, but you know THE TYPE of guy im talking about, anyway not the kind of issues like bad breath or stuttering or plain awkwardness, because in the movies they look perfect but they still have the right to look solemnly into the camera and deadpan: i am so broken. or my life is a mess. and we have to nod and believe all these gorgeous people who could probably get a job on GQ with a snap of their fingers. also because its a chick flick the central problem of the show would be a hiccup in the inevitable romance because as you know, there are, like, NO bigger issues in life besides meeting your ONE TRUE LOVE, and obviously there have to be hiccups and miscommunications that seem devastating but of course, not too devastating. politics? who cares! starving children in africa and a larger sense of societal responsibility? why are you even grilling me on this when the most important issue in the movie which will take up approximately 80 minutes in a 90 minute film is the process of meeting and ending up with THE ONE?

but

i forgot to specify the genre when i made my wish

huh but no, that really isnt at all what the movie recreation of my life would be like, the way im going chances are this movie of mine will be turned into some indie style (how i hate that word, indie, how it has been anglicized to mean something different now) movie shown in only the Picturehouse not even golden village or cathay, with subtext on individuality and feminism and existantialism and the Inevitability of life laced throughout the entire film and in the end everyone probably takes cynide and dies. 

i would NOT pay seven bucks to watch a show like that.

its just that the past week or two has been a complete mess for me and i have been writing nonstop but this time its too personal i am getting worse at divorcing my reality from my writing, it is something that distresses me. i dont want to post up pieces that will end up misinterpreted messily. too many nights spent trashing out things on behalf of different individuals, and catalysed by the lack of sleep, i sometimes forget that these are things happening to other people and not myself. i absorb these things into myself. i can no longer differentiate them. its driving me crazy, 'it will be the death of you', she told me, 'it is killing you and you need to stop.' but i cannot. everyone forgets that initially, edgar was the cat and catherine, the half dead bird, but in the end Bronte killed the cat. i know this, but i can not apply it to my own life. i failed lab lessons in high school. 

so i have thrown myself into letters and long, long emails. so many of them crafted only for their intended receipent, based on personal observation of their interpretation styles. you get tired, after awhile, adding clauses to everything. its easier to narrow down your audience to one and a half. i guess what im saying here is dont take it personally if i pull a sudden disapperance or decide to stop syncing my shared thought folder. i need to distill my thoughts from yours, understand that the unchartered region between our minds is a distance i should not breach, understand that i am my own person and i cannot be you for you no matter how much you need it, because i am losing grip. there is so much buzzing going on, you know, and so much chatter i cannot tune out.

so messy, but conversely, so much delight in disorder.

'not saying that we are perfectly there yet but i like that we are making the journey together.'

putting on red lipstick in a corner, across the room someone looks up and comments- she's growing up, check out her red lips, and J turns and comments- she's been wearing it for three years now. I get up and leave, go to a pet house down the back road. Its four stories high. The first three stories are T's apartment, and the fourth, the pet house. 

There is a long empty square space in the middle connecting all four stories such that when you stand in the middle of the first floor and look up, you can see all teh way to the top. On the top floor, i meet a tiny poodle with a surprising level of intelligence. Affectionate. We settle down to play checkers. Good boy, i say, aren't you smart? He most certainly is, i hear- i turn around and T is there with a glass of white wine balanced calmly in one hand, or was it champagne, im not too sure. As with dreams, technicalities are unreliable and shape shift. You would do well not to invest too much faith in one. 

He's all suited up, i realize, and i look around- its a party! Well dressed men and women minglng, some cooing at the dogs. I excuse myself, uncomfortable, go to the restroom. At the sink, when im washing my hands, I see W next to me. It occurs to me that she owns the pet house. What do you know, i think to myself, you cant escape from people even in dreamscape. 

Where are all the cats? I ask. I notice there are only dogs here.

She says: oh, we had to get them put down. They werent getting along well with the dogs, and one of them confessed that she liked to eat beans. At the vet, we gave her a final test: put three beans in front of her. She ate the first two, then we had to just do it. 

Beans? I ask. Why?

She looks at me. They're alive, but defenseless. Its a very unchristianlike value to eat the defenseless alive, isnt it?

I wash my hands and leave.

In another room, I am assigned to do body checks for all the guests. I pat them down one by one, watch the revulsion flit across some of their faces as they flinch away from being touched. I walk on into the next room. there are people- an asian girl, and a eurasian guy, practicing a song without words. You're a writer arent you? he asks, looking me in the eye. I cannot speak, but i shake my head slightly. Come here. Help us compose the lyrics. We have a competition to win. 

I find my voice. When is it?

Tomorrow.

she knew

she was always throwing poems at me

the likes of works from dead poets

all people who were destructive

committed suicide

or died of mental illnesses

and as much as she read 

she wrote so much

wrote herself into literature

i think she knew

or suspected

how it would end for her

but still she tried to seek validation

or, repose

one night she asked me

'what if i write myself into them

what if it happens to me too

suicide

mental illness

all these voices in my head

what if i cant take it anymore'

i told her what she wanted to hear

but i think we both knew 

that it was coming for her

she knew

and its not to say that i wasnt sad about it, or that i didnt cry, or wail, or scream,

but i really wasnt surprised when i received the cut-out obituary in the post.

also, feels as though i am turning into a boring person,

everyday

shrinking slightly

in my own measure

of 

interestingness.