I need you in the abstract.

I write to be understood. Hear me. See me. Need me.

“Who do you think you are? I asked. The hero of your own existence? You shrank into yourself. You pulled your head in like a little turtle. Tell me, I said, I’d really like to know. What is it like to be you? Two nights before your mother died I sat down to write her a letter. Me, who hates writing letters, who would rather pick up the phone to say my piece. A letter lacks volume, and I am a man who relies on volume to make myself understood.”

I am a woman who relies on words to be understood. I rely on particularities. I am particular. And I want to be particular with you.

“…I refused, and soon afterward brought things to an end and returned alone to my life. And what of it, Your honor? What of my life? You see, I thought—One has to make a sacrifice. I chose the freedom of long unscheduled afternoons in which nothing happens but the slightest shift in mood as captured in a semicolon…What I’m trying to say is that it seems to me you can’t have it both ways. So I made a sacrifice, and let go.”

I made a sacrifice, and let go. But to my riddles, to the silence cradling my words. I’m a liar who lies. I cannot control the truth. But I made a sacrifice, and let go. I forced up words when there were no words to be had. I sat in my corner and cried about the lack of air the days had supplied while you had been locked inside your own self. Through my slow suffocation, I admitted truths and vulnerability and sadness.

“One of us had loved the other more perfectly, had watched the other more closely, and one of us listened and the other hadn’t, and one of us held on to the ambition of the one idea far longer than was reasonable, whereas the other, passing a garbage can one night, had casually thrown it away.”

I throw things away when I am overwhelmed. I cannot pride myself on my ability to invest or commit. I have yet to develop that bravery. And when I speak it out loud, I’m ashamed that I need you to hear me. See me. I need you to see me. Understand when the thoughts migrate off of the page unable to form words. Understand when my breath catches for days, folds up into my stomach and heart, making each organ heavy and sick. Understand when I’ve sunk into a hole. A hole lined with fear, sleeplessness, irritation. A hole where words will never find their place. A hole where reason has been halted and an incessant pounding takes over, right above my ears. Agitation and loneliness force ink to run out, and all I can do is wait for the sun to come back. I’ll need you, not to pull me out of the paragraph-less hole, but to send me apples and pillows.

“And as we spoke a picture of myself emerged and developed, reacting to S’s hurt like a Polaroid reacting to heat, a picture of myself to hang on the wall next to the one I’d already been living with for months—the one of someone who made use of the pain of others for her own ends, who, while others suffered, starved, and were tormented, hid herself safely away and prided herself on her special perceptiveness and sensitivity to the symmetry buried below things.”

I get lost in the symmetry buried below myself. Because sometimes I am selfish. When I scrunch my eyes, stretch my neck, throw my arms overhead, and hope the slight movements will relieve the neverending tension. Rubbing the bridge of my nose in case inspiration is hiding up there. I need you in the abstract. As a whisper. A reminder of connection. To understand me without words. Because sometimes words won’t be there. Sometimes words will be barricaded just outside of my fingertips’s reach. And I’ll need you, shamelessly, to see me through silence. To hear me even when sentences can’t be formed.

—————-

:: Quotations found in Great House by Nicole Krauss ::

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it’s filled with your hands

…can you see

that the way you move

unnerves me.

(it continues).

and that

the way you breathe

reminds me

of what it’s like to be

speechless.

i stumble around

for short phrases

of.

i can’t even remember

the words.

they’re hidden somewhere

behind the

heartbeats

filling my ears

(i think they’re mine?)

but as

i miss each step

each silenced word

attempts to remind me

how to

.

string letters

.

together.how to make the curl of the s

the lines of the L

the cross of the–

–and then.

.

my pen stops as my entire mind

runs out of ink

it’s filled with your hands

and every sentence

i could only wish to complete

is interrupted.

by your eye color

i don’t even know what to call it

since language

coincidentally.

has stopped.

i try to practice

rhyming

and

scribbling

but your warmth

tricks me

into omitting syllables.

my cursive falls to the floor

along with my rationality

i think yours too

has fallen

somewhere in the pile

of forgotten bits of

paragraphs in

all my lost

adjectives and each

of

my neglected nouns.

as

how dare your world

of certainty

erupt my world

of melody as

your knowledge

of flawed silence

curls around my words as

 the paint of reality

begins to slowly drip

through our evertwined

intervention as

i barely taste

your homemade excuses

and your look of apathy as

i think [therefore]

you’ve misunderstood

what these syllables

urge to spell as

your fixation

upon yourself

implies your sickened vanity as

i scribble

every moment. look. and desperation.

unleashed

with your heartsoaked

sentiment

of an everlasting

unbecoming

rejection

of the world

of my words.

__________________

you say nothing

as you flee.

cool days of warm suns. sad walks. repeated hopes.

i sometimes forget how much i like words.

but when i start a book that knows how to use them,

i often can’t get more than a page without writing one down.

or just writing in general.

traitor.

resonate.

resounding.

meaninglessness.

madness.

ingrid.

days like this remind me of those lost moments you don’t know what to do with.

they creep up on you.

sly. in their sneak.

and before you know it, you forget yourself. forget the world.

and remember the inevitable timelessness that also can’t help its sneaking.

suddenly, you remember you love words.

the way sorrowful songs sound more real than non.

the dance of syllables that dribble on every piece of paper.

onceuponatime.

it’s cool days of warm suns.

sad walks.

repeated hopes.

with a cliched understanding of forgetting what you thought you knew.

lack of nostalgia.

and a sense of wander.

purposely placed.

to what end.

i’m not quite sure.

and all of these words spilled out one by one.

yesterday. my words couldn’t get enough indignation.

my animosity at the many injustices existence has somehow collected

fueled a rather impenetrable distate for the world.

and all of these words spilled out one by one.

mostly so my own ears could hear them.

i didn’t understand how we could go on spinning, while the majority of things favored implosion.

while people resorted to bad manners and inconsideration without a second thought.

while being self-centered is the only reasonable revolution that exists.

see. this is where my mind was.

and just as quickly.

my distate faded into life’s usual mediocrity.

i worked a bit.

and watched the dogs play.

i even ate a fish sandwich with my sister.

and i was mildy confused by the stark juxtaposition when i woke up.

the hostility faded. the commonplace resumed.

and i’m left unsure of how i feel.

am i angry at the world’s exploitation?

mildy.

sickened by so many people’s sense of complaisance, self-righteousness, and apathy?

completely.

but it doesn’t sit at the forefront on my mind as it did yesterday.

i don’t hate these habits as much as i did 18 hours ago.

and the point of interest. for me. is the fact that they weren’t relieved in my mind.

my thoughts of them didn’t change.

i don’t care less.

my feelings are simply less pointed.

and more accepting.

for no other reason than the day changed.

the moment faded.

and i began to think about something else.

there’s snow on the ground. and it’s april eleventh.

my birthday is tomorrow.

and i’m enjoying my coffee.

this is. for whatever reason. where my mind found itself for these hours.

the lack of consciousness behind this decision

suggests that such choice wasn’t fully mine.

which. is in itself. a completely separate topic.