Feel

I really wanted to talk to someone after I got out of there! Almost immediately after I left, I started chuckling, I was giggling, and I felt infuriated at the same time, it was ridiculous and therefore funny. It was realistic and disillusioning and expected. How disappointing, how shatteringly funny.

I came out onto the street bursting to talk to someone, I wanted to have someone beside me to whom I could explode and voice out all my thoughts, the kind of conversation that would involve crazy hand gestures, high-pitched, incredulous exclamations, some slight hopping up and down, a genuine disregard for what the people around me might make of this lunatic I'd become. I wanted to be animated, I wanted someone in front of me to bear witness to this, I couldn't remember the last time I had so forceful an opinion I just had to make clear to someone, just for the sake of sharing this experience.

It felt like I'd been in a coma, being kept alive on feigned nonchalance, feigned interest, and feigned surprise, the mundane monotony of trying to match circumstances with the socially correct stock of reactions. Express suitable level of awe here, try to pass off friendly response there, attempt politeness, nod in understanding.

How silly. How sad.

But I didn't talk to anyone, and by the time I was sitting in the tram to go home, the last vestiges of the feeling were draining out, as I rested my head against the window.

You know what else I've been thinking? I've been hoping I'd be able to write something beautiful. If I can write something beautiful, something that draws you in, something that distracts you from your current happiness/sadness/indifference, something that feels like the silence that rings in your ears before you fall off the precipice.

I think I'd be happy if I could do that.

The usage of profanity when writing and also inside my head has been increasing, it worries even me.