I’ve got a lot of questions, but I never ask any of them. I couldn’t tell you if you asked me why I read tarot for other people but never for myself, though I pretend to have the answer, hiding beneath my tongue, just between me and myself, but there’s nothing there. I’ve been wondering a lot if everyone feels as much like an idiot as I do. When push comes to shove, I don’t know anything at all. Have I myself become distorted by the subjectivity of reality? Who am I to naked eyes? If what I see isn’t what I know, and, instead, what I know is what I see, my perceptions nothing but a fragment of myself, how can I ever see anything differently? Am I just floating in this river, or am I swimming?
I often feel like I’m only attached to reality by a single strand of hair. If only I’d use a bit of force, I’d float away, like I do in my dreams. Sounds like a nice dream, doesn’t it? It’s not, it’s quite awful. Can’t control it or go back down, in a minute I’m floating over my house, like a puppet, watching life from afar, terrified. And I mean, of course that’s how the dream goes. Am I this way by design? Am I predictable in my bones or is it simply a trap I designed too long ago to remember? A mechanism to keep myself at bay. The more I get to know myself, the more obvious it gets that I’m a fucking bore. When my ghosts catch up to me, they go “ugh. her, again?”. It’s getting so old I swear I can feel myself gently fade in perspective. Is it this hard for everybody? To exist and feel? If not, can I get a re-do? Is it too late to disappear?
Or have I done that already? I’m not quite sure. Every self is so far away from the other. I’m aware that I must take things as they are and that I have much work to do. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take the chance to be something else. I don’t know, I wish I was something. I don’t hate her, I would just like her to be some other way rather than the way she is. Looking at her gets more and more sour by the day. She feels like a waste of time and yet all the time I have is hers.
Just the fact that I’m writing about wanting to disappear or be something else instead of about myself tells you enough about how predictable I am. God I wish someone would sedate me so I could shut up for a few months.
unpleasant conversations 