Obsession
Below you will find an unedited stream of an afternoon mind. If you’ve ever thought what someone else was thinking...
I thought of you again, in that drift onto the other side: where desire buried me, the mind that sorts primal, that stirs memory into a cocktail of sub-awareness, where I meet myself in the need.
I can’t breathe, I run. I can’t move, I melt. I see distortions of something I will never have, and believe these are visions assured.
I’d rather have you, but I settle. I coalesce to pining on my secret, collect, grow, feed off relationships that don’t serve either a purpose. I want you to think of me, like I—think think think—intrusive. I can’t avoid obsession: over things, impossible futures, the thought of you, of us. I want that obsession more than I want the event to become.
I cannot be normal. I watch normalcy—visit the zoo—I am caged, watching the world meander towards predictable gatherings. I watch for the eye in the crowd that hides its empty in a sea of reflection: that shard of death slicing permanent. I glimmer on the surface believing that I could know the deeper side through a rift. Convinced to know you, that you, I cannot hide either.
Today, the future we could not predict: we have methods—immediate—to satisfy a replica of the one we want. The figment, chase the dragon, there is no drug more powerful than staring too long into perception. Perfect. Now. I see the past in every moment, too late. Falling, the vortex of the future I won’t have again. Another night, another manifestation, another chance to convince myself that our imagination is tomorrow. Another example from the small percentage, of luck, of anecdote. An example of what we can’t have… if we are to be unique.
Learning, data, a chart colored just for me, ideas to gnaw on. The clench, it is not fear, it is the need to hold, to grip something with a fervor, with strength beyond physicality. This mind masturbates, knowing it cannot have reality.
-nomics, possibility, opportunity
The perfect combination of things lifetimes spend evaluating, only to see it can never happen again. Not like this.
Turn to experience, make more, old as new, detail, nitpicked to make it so, make it ours, possession.
I can’t see the world: not as it is, never as it was, forever how you wish. I settle for clawing at your demons, inviting them to mutilate me, so I could feel you. But we are restrained, sheltered, distanced from the savagery that made us. Yet compelled to seek passion, a means to forget, to taste purity. To carry the consequence: there is a chance, always slight, the next will see things better, the future must be better than this—anything is. Because I am not, cannot be, with the collection of sights that desensitize. Fresh. A gift of ignorance. Watch the disappointment. Incapable flesh. Askew. Watch it wobble in your footsteps. Watch the decay like a clock, the digits will be the same again, and again, and again. And all we can do is watch, be examples of not. The individual can choose, groups can only restrict. We… create. The next will always hate the example for the things they failed to be, for becoming the example. Purity born to fumble talent into sin. Miss, miss, miss. To find the aim impractical, live another simulation, just to see someone win a game nobody knew they were playing. Was I too late, to discover I was too worried at a time I cannot control. To consider time as if I was it, as if I built consciousness. All I could be was that emotion, trampled, smothered, by evidence that I am used.
While life was happening, I was thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Invested in spending hours useful, as if the day would come. As if tomorrow would be different. As if I could forget you.
How can we all be so irrelevant and so necessary for each other. And to continue despite. Hell bent heaven so humans could find balance, torturing ourselves in the name of another.
