There are times when I wonder how fucking drunk I have to be for predictive spelling to become obsolete. What else?
Well: I don’t seem to ever think like anyone my age.
So what if all conversations are competitions then I win? Everyone else hates it. I hate it.
This must be the reason that I was depressed for so long, right? Because people communicate to bond and every conversation I have is riddled with judgement.
It is remarkable how uncomfortable I make people. It is fascinating to watch them squirm, to completely lose whatever had in that moment grounded them.
Now nothing. Now the disappointing sigh of melancholy. Now the disdain. Now the forced laughter. Now the crumbling of those cracker thin walls.
The sound of silence has many octaves. There is the quiet solitude, yes. But more than that, there is the noiseless emptiness that plagues every bed-time of every meaningless relationship I have ever had.
(I also must include the perfect silence
of true love, the eyes and pillows
and intuitive, compulsive breathing and slight,
delicate fingers of aching, shuddering, rhythmic skin.)
There. There is the heartbreak of silence, of sound. Now let me back to my music so I may wallow in someone else’s deep-rooted, beautiful,
delicate, and wholly selfish symphony.