I sat on the bench that afternoon, reading Sylvia Plath. I was back in between extremes, reveling in the layers of reality I consumed. There was hers, there was mine, but then there were the facts of sensibility and truth that I was hoping to withstand and elude. What was I doing, trying to build myself from obscurity, hoping that some variation on the human form could exist in the waste, the excess I inhabited? I didn’t know anything really, except the vague uncertainty I often mistook for thought.
And there it was again, the luxury (haven) of dark, screaming, infantile in its naiveté. A youth I had never needed before. This dimness, this anxiety was my means of becoming exotic, unfamiliar and strange. Working through it I could recount stories others could never conceive.
But nobody cared what I was doing, and I realized no one really mattered as much as they thought they did.
(All heads staring longingly from bathroom windows)
And this was all just a writing exercise.