Phone reads 7:47, but it won’t take me anywhere. Flashing screen, it was a late night, and I didn’t get much sleep. They say appearances are only skin deep? It means nothing if no one sees me; that’s evasive equality. A year ago, my bed was the happiest place; now it’s lonely. Never did I feel more like Clooney and Keibler; not elves in a tree, but on red carpets being the dreamer. I’m trying to be optimistic, but my anxiety’s so Deepak Chopra; it looks like me, but it acts like a distant stranger. The date on my TV’s wrong; it says July twenty-three. My mom told me to stop stressing, especially when I’ve got everything. This is who I am now? No, this is exactly who I was then. Hid it pretty well, right? Well I’ve had help since. Well I’ve made friends since, but it’s my fault that I cut myself off when I did, and now I’m totally off the grid. Ironic that you’ll read this. Ironic that I wrote it. Why couldn’t I pick up the fucking phone? Because social media’s the real joke, and I am just a hipster troll.
I cry at TV funerals; Kutner, Petrelli, McGarry. The series finale of The West Wing wrecked me. The season finale of WNG still haunts me; that I did that, that I did SL.UT.S!, that I almost forgot me. They turned the Blockbuster I went to into a restaurant that’s Japanese. It’s the night of the reoccurring and I am living in my own surrealities. Sometimes I think I’m still nineteen; it must be some Freud shit. That was my age when I left, but hadn’t let go yet. I still haven’t. I’m older than most everybody, by at least three years, but I’m still pretty immature. They say money talks. I tell them I don’t watch Ratner. I am just heart, and it’s okay if I shatter. I do not talk. I am just a writer. Half hearted is that nice ring he got her. The mind is restless; about what it knows not. Functioning’s the easy part; just can’t let them see the malfunction. I’m erroneous, acrimonious, and have certainly become unceremonious. I think my mom is the best cook. Family hates me at potlucks. I think loyalty’s a burden. Explains why I’ve never been chosen.
You’re really something, you know that? When I ask you a question, you stop me mid-sentence, smiling, as if I already knew the answer. And then if I become quiet, you pester me with questions, smiling, as if I already know the answers. I only have one question, to which I will never know the answer: who am I to you?
I had a good Friday, but I’m back for a great resurrection. Far from the ruins of happiness, collecting the ashes of sadness. Deep sorrows gasp for air. I suffocate them–out of jealousy, out of purpose, out of acceptance–that happiness isn’t immortal. Silence. I never thought about how deathly it could be. Suspended, quiet, unassuming, guilty. Silence. Your smile isn’t innocent, and neither are your eyes. They don’t like questions, but they really hate my answers. What I wouldn’t do to keep you staring; keep you fixated on whatever it is you choose to see in me. You kill me every day you don’t utter a sound. I’ve never known a person to go to his death smiling. I never understood how reading the last page of a novel could ever give anything of real substance away, from the chapters before it, but more importantly, from the story as a whole. I always write the epilogue first–not as a way to pace myself, but as a way to make peace with myself–so if I never finish, I’ll always have that sense of closure, however first draft, unfinished, and unwritten. My prologue’s too promising, my chapters’ too complex, and my epilogue’s an eternity.
I don’t believe silence is golden. I think the conversation’s just broken. I wish somebody would find it; all the lost time that’s been stolen. The real world is frozen. It doesn’t own us. We were handwoven in the moment of the poisoned erosion of truth wrapped in explosives. I think I’m corrosive, but I’ve got too much emotion, not to mention devotion, to me, myself, and all that I’ve spoken. My name’s not token. My name’s not Hoboken. In music, it’s elegant; Ellington was a showman. In Spanish, it’s birth control; in Canada, it’s a state garden. I wish somebody who knows me once knew me. I’m Ted Mosby, clanking Arizona bottles like they were forty’s, and B.L.T. is not a sandwich, it’s a heartbreaking blog post. We weren’t magic. We were magnets. Flash bangs of flashbacks, [my] writing made [you] immortal. Our initials were almost the same, so I could probably pull a Jack White, and take your last name.
I think I’m starting to sound like the songs of Toni Braxton.
Jesus’ bacK, and I longer need to be signing off with —