a sunday stream of consciousness

i can't come up with titles for word vomits that lack any pattern or intention or order. but here u go!

i have spent my day ignoring the tightening guilt in my stomach. i left my house at 2pm.

anywhere littered with people is littered with trash, dirt, rot, dust, and cigarette butts. i think i am starting to accept it. there is a sense of depravity in the air that i’m sure even the wind has to be aware of, but maybe it’s just me.

i am allowing my hair to get tangled and messy, allowing it to cover my eyes. my nose is runny and my fingers are numb. i do not think i feel depressed. i definitely do not feel lonely¹. i’ve escaped to the park to read didion, drink ginger ale, and listen to the velvet underground. (what do you think i’d see, if i could walk away from me?)

areas of my town are beginning to smell sour but when i happen to point it out to people they tell me they don’t notice it. whenever i look in a mirror lately, my face is the same colorless shade all across. i used to hate it but now i’m starting to like it, starting to like the tired and bland look.

i spent my last three dollars, thinned and faded, on the reddest apple i could find. it is sitting next to me now.

i love it when the sky is grey and dim, like the way it has been today, but whenever it’s like this i always feel like my vision isn’t completely clear. it’s the same way my vision is in my dreams, foggy and blurred, never focused. lately i’ve been dreaming about girls i am positive i don’t like back, but that i just feel slightly obligated to like because i think that they like me. in the mornings i can never remember which girl exactly i was dreaming about.

each day is always over before it begins. i can’t grasp time, i’ve given up on trying. it winks at me before rushing through each day like a winter stream.

i think that i will become nauseous if i keep having to endure conversations where nothing is actually said. that seems to be every conversation².

two nights ago i was driving through the city, watching it pass me behind the glass, when i saw The Lookout³, and, sitting on the balcony all alone, looking out, a girl⁴ with bright blond hair and vibrant makeup. i saw her very briefly— so briefly that i’m not sure how much of her image, how much of my image of her, is invented. real or an invention, she hasn’t left my mind. for the single blurred moment that i saw her, i felt intimately connected with her. i think i partially yearn for her world, or, the world i imagined as hers⁵. i felt the chilled air on her shoulders, i thought of the way she was looking down into the city, for some meaning, some connection. i felt her queerness, felt it link to mine.

i just flipped to a random page in rimbaud’s illuminations. the passage reads:

“postilion and animals of dream, will they begin again in stifling forests to plunge me up to my eyes in the silken spring?”

1. i am rereading this sentence, my claim that i “definitely do not feel lonely”, and allowing myself to admit that it is untrue. i do feel lonely. i yearn for some kind of connection more than ever, and the more that i go on without it, the more i am skeptical at it’s existence. but i do not feel lonely, that is, it is not a feeling i am overwhelmed with, because i am used to and comfortable in my solitude. i honestly prefer my solitude; i am very introverted. and i know i prefer it over people whom i definitely do not connect with, where i would just feel pained and annoyed. but… i am lonely. i am okay, though.

2. besides the conversations i have with my friend during the occasional midnights when we walk through the town, for hours, after watching a movie together at the local theater. love u jonah!

3. popular gay bar/nightclub in san francisco for those who don’t know :)

4. i’ve decided to consider and regard to this person i saw as a woman because her whole “existence” to me is a fiction that belongs to me, so that’s why i think it is okay. obviously i have no idea who “she” actually is— and especially considering The Lookout is a gay bar. i kind of assumed “she” was maybe a trans woman or a drag queen, but i have no idea, and i obviously never make assumptions about someone’s gender or pronouns in real life, but, like i said, she is fiction :) based of an unreliable millisecond-long vision.

5. a world, i must disclaim, that i do not imagine to be perfect or picturesque in any aspect— partially why i am so fixated on it.