i wish you wrote songs about me

so i could see the way i seem

i tried writing songs about me

its not the same

ask me again in a couple more years

if i still see things this way

the bottom line, ill say to you

its the same, but not the same

some more bullshit advice.

find something you love that you're good at, do it. That way, you won't starve.
find something you love that you're bad at. do it. That way, you'll stay humble.
find someone you love that you trust. That way, you gain safety.
find someone you love that you are afraid of. That way, you gain wonder.

She tried to fuck me because she thought I was gay.
Turns out, I wasn't attracted to her, so I guess that didn't help clear things up.
I'm better at convincing people I've barely met to travel thousands of miles to be with me for a week,
than I am at being worth it for more than a couple of months.
I want to relate to people without changing for them.
Performance is dangerous. "I am important", the performer cries, simply by standing in front of you.
This cannot be subverted. I sure as hell haven't, anyway.
 I'm just a lie, a paradox. I want you to know that. I crave nullification, more than I want to feel good.
Maybe nullification feels good. Maybe I shouldn't have drank that much that night we talked.
Maybe if I pour all of myself into building a playlist of movies, music, books, and other amalgamations of other peoples' passion that I identify with, I can just give that to everyone I meet and slowly form this supergroup of likeminded people. Is it fucked up that that seems like my best bet at connecting with people? The more you know, the more you are aware of the vastness of what you don't know.
The more you know, the harder it is to find the right words.
The more you know, the more grating bullshit platitudes feel like... so I guess I'm sorry.
The opening line was supposed to be a kind of palate cleanser. It really did happen to me, though. I miss her.

I was working graveyards at a gas station once. An eccentric came in, late. Too late for certain kinds of people. I used to write things on the receipts I found there, the copies people didn't want. It's not that I had anything to say, its not that I care all that much about the environment, I just saw all that empty space and... well I felt a desire to fill it, I suppose. The man had things he wanted to tell me. Things that looped around and got really confusing. I don't remember much of what you, I mean he (who am I writing for) said to me, but I, right now, seem fixated on his eyes... what he looked like when he was looking right at me. I would talk with him, about vaguely political things I think... as I spoke, he would write down individual words I used on those receipts  then hold up a hand, silencing me. Then he held up the word, and deconstructed. He would say the word, focus on how it sounds, words it sounds like, words that grow out of it. He would draw circles around certain letters, reorganize them, talk about this arcane mechanism he saw when he looked at those squiggly lines. It was like some religion he was making up as he went along, and he seemed... happy. I resented him, I pitied him, I envied him. I resented him, I pitied him, I envied him. I... hmm.

There was another man, another eccentric. He worked at the local sign shop. His van was covered in decals. WAKE UP, it said. 9/11 was an inside job, et cetera. We were friends, of a sort; I think he was one of the only people who heard what I had to say with nothing to lose, perhaps I was one of the only people who listened to him, asked him how he was doing, asked him questions about what he said, etc. It wasn't pity, charity, or anything like that. I NEEDED HIM. I guess, I figured if I could be there for him, I could still keep faith that someone would see something in me. He entered my empty gas station one night with a baseball hat covered in tinfoil on his head. He explained to me that he was playing a joke on everyone who thought he was crazy. He told me that I was the only one who got it. Other people who saw him, I guess, just saw a metallic cherry on top of an absurd, hopeless sundae. That was the night you, um, "he" told me that I was your only friend. Hearing that scared the fucking daylights out of me. Knowing I meant that much to him made me feel violated. What does that mean? Looking back on it, my connection to him feels warm, valuable, nice. Yet, I don't talk with him anymore. I don't seek him out. Is it a conceit that I enjoy him from a distance? Maybe...

I think I found a good place once.

How do you write about a horizon?
if writing is moving, then horizons are impossible.

are horizons like authenticity?

is self awareness a barrier
between me and you?

is self-awareness a barrier between me and... me?

I'm thankful for reflection, though not reflection.
If it wasn't for the mirrors in windows, would I ever see you?

when it's through reflection, I'm not distracted by
you seeing me.

It seems easier that way.

You never know which moments
will remain in your memory

But I think there's a pattern
In just what you mean to me

being able to forget is,
is
is,
is,
is.
.
.
.





what was I talking about?