I go to buy bananas

I go to buy banannas. How many n’s in bana… Everything I love dies to the machine. Money. ‘I enjoy this’ say it again and again. It might become true. It was, I think. I remember. My view is obvious to me. Disturbed. Priorities skew, where did they come from? Can’t find a parking spot. The mind’s attempt to to choose efficient locations. Reserved spots? How many need to be empty? No. How much mental processing goes into inconsequential tasks? Backing in. The parking lots of Walmart are surreal. They all feel the same, no matter where I go. And I keep going. It’s too bright inside. The people aren’t real. I’m a fraud. I know where the bananas are. I don’t find them. Stop and change direction. Walk is relaxed. Crooked. I’ve been watching it since the parking lot, after being discovered. I was safer in the truck. Why do my boots look like that? I think they are cool. Pay attention. Must have processed the path ahead. Maybe I wish to bump into someone. No, not like this, the way I am. Does anyone notice? No, they are not real. I don’t know where I’m going. Are we really all that better off making the subconscious a conscious activity? I think it is the opposite. But I’ll never be a popular neuro-pseudo-scientific-guru. Charlatan. At least I’m no longer tempted by their illness. I have mine. It doesn’t create “success”. Suicide… won’t fix this either. Maybe I can; by fixing my surroundings. Never been an external thing. I watch movies, hear stories, meet people; they have circumstances. I wish the debilitations upon myself, so I might have a reason to feel this way. Open palm to my forehead. To comfort it. Someone surprises around the corner. Can’t let her see my insides. Banana stand.

Holding the bananas. I should have a basket. Could pretend that I’m shopping. Cookies, brownies. I like eating whole packs of Madelines. Pumpkin pie. It won’t solve anything. The aisles have all sorts of things I use to hide from myself. Tonight, I know nothing will solve my feeling. Remember drugs? I look at women. How are they all beautiful? Can’t help seeing the best in them. Avoid. Addictions will not solve me. I spot picture frames, stock photo actors looking happy. Couples, families. In their little dekko-cages. I’m envious, knowing their happiness is faked. I want fake happiness. A gimbal-globe camera hangs overhead. Sentinel. Are they watching? Watch the device. I’m pretending to go shopping. It looks the same as all the others. Staring at items, unsure of the nature of my true thoughts. Glance back at my boots. My feet are here, I am here. Walking around. It’s so bright. Kids. They look real. A smile makes me smile. Do I need anything? I feel how I hold the bananas: one hand spit puncturing, the other grasped in pinch tension. Finger pressed and back bent. Can they tell all I came for are these two bunches? Stare too long at the youthful cashier. Tall. Glasses. I like her without motive, without reason. Catch glances of her looking where I look. Does she see me? Turn away. Stretch the upper back, crack the neck, like I always crack. No relief.

I’ve been meeting myself. Finding all the secrets to my existence. I wonder if someone will ever find this hidden self. I’m pretending to be a person. In the parking lot, I nearly weep. For my mother. She must endure watching her love grow into my despair.

Maybe she can see it.

I try most to hide it from her, and my friends. They have real problems. I will be nobody’s burden.

I’m deferring my depression. There’s a time and place for that. Excited to have my nightly yogurt.

So I went to buy bananas, and planned to cry after.

———

Blamed my difficulty on a situation. People understand that. Venting. I can’t tell them about the other stuff. The stuff that creates situations. Have I felt this all this time? I remember joy, a few times at least. Felt like a distraction. Knowing I was going back soon. That’s not joy, to know it’s about to end. I remember attempting to extend the moment. Stretch time, stretch. I remember those moments more than any others. Is that dread? I can pretend.

I look for external things as the origin of my distress. The internal things can’t be altered. I live in there, with them. It knows, sets traps in the world to bring me back in. I take in other people’s problems. Maybe enough to think: ‘people are my problem.’

The world looks in, and I feel it. And it is a good excuse to pretend.