This is a big fuck you to Non-Fiction.

fuck you, Non-Fiction.

And now I will explain:

I am a socialized humanoid. I exist because social constructs allow me to; they tell me how to act, how to think, how to be, and (most importantly) what to expect. I can make friends by adhering to social norms like shaking hands and answering the question "how are you?" with "okay". I can date a boy and know that, at some point, he's probably going to expect something more physical from me because my physical attributes and how I use them are way more important to our relationship than my personality, despite what he says. I can change my clothes according to where I'm going, whether it be work or class or a party.

What I can't do though is give Non-Fiction what it wants and that is because it is willing to take so much that I have nothing to give it. What if I disappoint it? What if I don't do it justice? What if my non-fiction- my reality- is completely uninteresting and unimportant to Non-Fiction? This is not my problem though. This is Non-Fiction's problem.

Non-Fiction is synonymous with the word "whatever".

Waiting passively, as though it is willing to accept whatever I have to offer, Non-Fiction waits for me to fail. It leaves so many options open for me, not because it wants to hear everything, but because it doesn't really care. Like the half-assed ear of an acquaintance, Non-Fiction is only pretending to listen to everything I have to say, nodding and laughing at seemingly appropriate times. But when I ask for it's opinion, Non-Fiction will simply shrug it's shoulders and tell me to ask someone else. Non-Fiction and I will never be best friends at this rate.

Like a dog chasing its tail though, I am not yet ready to give up on Non-Fiction. Instead, I have a proposal to make. Here I am, bending on one of my literary knees and holding Pandora's Box in my hand, waiting to open it. All I need is an answer to the one question everyone has been scared to ask: What do you want from me, Non-Fiction? When I get the answer, I will be ready and willing to give Non-Fiction what it wants and expects from me. Until that day though, I will continue to pine over Non-Fiction, vacillating between love and hate all while trying incessantly to please the insatiable nature it has adopted.

i was going to explain...but nvm.

A Hypomanic Stream of Thought

My pen can't keep up

with the words racing

and racing and racing

in my mind and out

of my ears, clouding

my vision like gnargles

getting stuck in a cloud

of electrons while the

chemistry snaps and sparks

but my cigarette won't light

so I grind my teeth and

drink some blood I found

in the back of the

refrigerator where I left

the giraffe after I took

out the elephant and

put it in the middle

of a room where I hid

in the shadow but a

fleeting feeling says

I can't keep them here-

it's inhumane- like the

dolphins who work

their nine to fives

sticking their bottled noses

into underwater minefields

to feed the information

to a man standing on a boat

unable to walk on water

because he probably stopped

going to church like I

stopped going to church when

the Elektra complex wore off

and I realized daddy

wasn't coming home and

it was just me and mommy

with the louse in my hair

and the worms under my skin

covered with the red bumps

that daddy's mommy gave me

before the cancer took her

and left me crying in the

bathroom with my favourite

cousin who is no longer

my best friend because things

get complicated and friends

get drunk so they can share

the feelings they really

don't have so you push them

out of the picture and press

a button too fast so you're

stuck looking at the blur

of your friends right

elbow where they walked

out of your life where

they no longer exist because

object permanence has suspended

itself for the time being-

however long that is because

i swear it's noon

and it has been for

about two weeks now

with the occasional

after lunch nap where

I wake up and realize

I'm late for French so

I drive to class where

it's all about j'etais

et j'atais et j'etais

but seriously-

qu'est-ce que j'etais?

je ne sais pas mais

je ne veux pas suivre.

because what i am now

works and works and

works everyday for thirteen

days of eternity brought

on by copious amounts

of espresso (america's cocaine)

that's never pure enough

because I don't have change

for a fake one-hundred dollar

bill so I give them a drink

but my oasis doesn't have

enough shade and they've

been driving all day

through the deserts of

Southern California whre

Mickey Mouse and Mexicans

alike provide whatever is missing

for the people who don't

know what they have

but I don't think we have

anything but they tell me

what I think is wrong so they

pump my blood full

of drugs that only work

if I don't take them and self-medicate

with a bottle, a bowl, and

a little blue pill- all

swimming inside my veins

putting my mind at ease by

duct taping synapses and

dendrites over the mouth

and around the wrists

so I can finally close

my eyes and sleep for

two hours before the

entire thing starts

all

over

again.

This may or may not be the anti-depressants and alcohol talking, but I have a confession to make:

I can't feel anything.

I don't mean that in the "I'm so drunk you can slap my face and I won't feel it way". I mean it in the emotionally void and absent way.

I don't feel anything.

I am so envious of people who can suffer for longer than half an hour. Of people who are heart broken...or happy...or sad...or angry...or any of that because all I feel is complete indifference. I'm sure that's not even a feeling- indifference that is. It's not something people feel on a regular basis. In fact, some people never feel it at all. Most people know how they feel about any given situation at any given time, even if it's "only a feeling".

I yearn for "only a feeling".

I long for something that's "only a phase".

Instead, I'm left with indifference and polarization. I know how to send feelings and people and things flying into north and south; east and west. I don't know how to find some middle ground...or Earth, rather...where I can genuinely feel.

It's terrible here. I am a black hole of anti-emotion.

Someone help?

27 February 2010

Waves of blue rush to cleanse
the stains of white washed
terrains, once a lush green and
natural brown.

Flowers crane their necks
mauka, straining to sing
a song of warning while birds
of paradise head for higher ground.

In another world, Mother Earth
has already made her mark.
Her ocean of tears polluted with the dead
trees and flesh of a shaken land.

Anticipation reverberates in the ocean
leaving the air stale and ghost like
in the middle of a family vacation.