There is so much information and stuff, spikes in learning, and I just want to dump it all on their lap but they don’t understand, they can’t understand, for surveillance makes out their limitations clearly. Their inexperience is systemic. Their stride is too clumsy. Inept but well-meaning. The sloppiness poses difficulties. Maybe it’s simple chemistry. Unsettled, it’s a situation to go along with for now. Already wondering about how to extract without shattering… if only. If only they were more talented…

Some people can take a violin and make it sound like a child laughing, a puppy whining, an unnameable melody from childhood. But this one. They pick up the violin.

It sounds like a violin. Proficient, I suppose.

I don’t know if I can live with proficient

not with what i felt THEN sharing now.

To put it in the music and the words is the must behind all the need. This is what it always comes down to: alone with a tornado of words, the incessant children songs about not smiling.Sonatas are beggars on corners. Lyrics are women behind concrete cells, scraping the floor to get escape. Wanting to shut the music box down, but there is a key, only a few of the melodies can tell you where the key leads. They can’t pretend to understand.

I don’t mind being alone. It’s the memories. Once, they were well-intentioned.

The only one who shared my agony and ecstasy, the only one who can speak to me of them now. It’s harder being alone knowing how the one who crossed boundaries, could crack open translations, doors, and safes, is also the problem.

They aren’t here today but I can’t chalk them up as a loss, either.

Today. I learned how desperate people will be when faced with what they need, not what they want..The worst of lies beCAUSE they were so ashamed of their needs..

It’s a common problem. Almost laughable how not unique their problem! How big a deal they make over it! Makes them the problem. Never A problem (problems can be solved) but The Problem.

Talk about hogging center stage…

The novel is stirring inside me. I see the answers to make the character real.

The  place where i can write it.

Looking back.. Will I risk looking back..

They can’t rock me as I confide in them about the distance between the two. (what is unembracable and embraceable too? How they notify me that they are here but not here for me? Their hello-don’t-call-this-a-real-hello.) The way going down hurts like going up feels like throwing up gets. They would be polite enough. But how outlandish the scene. “Huh. Want to play the violin now? I can make it sound like a violin!”

I don’t want to hear a violin sound like a fucking violin! I want it to sound like anything but a violin!

And you, the nice one, you would let me hate you for decency!

I can’t say that I don’t think about what could have been, especially when the questions are answered. The answers are very, very shaky.

They reflect sickness.

It’s not me that it troubles. Not my world they cast into doubt. I left them room for their lies. Did they notice? No, they probably didn’t. Because for all the space, my inborn curiosity was a natural interrogation room, as well as a comfort zone for them. I guess it depended on whether they wanted to share or hide. I let them do both, but they wouldn’t believe. That leap of faith- some people aren’t capable of it?

Is that what you dared to tell me with your instant microwaves, your inbred cousins, your moldy bread, your online everything, the google jobs, the amazon jobs, the interviews, the construction sites, the hahaha’s after every sentence that held something important, the formality, the speed of a ghost is what?

I hate it when I must ask you to repeat yourself. I didn’t hear you the first time. And you won’t tell me a second?!

I don’t feel like my world view has been toppled. Nothing nearly that dramatic, though most others here would react that way. They’d feel betrayed. An extreme reaction. So normal here. But my reaction is nothing more than a sigh.

The worst was confirmed. I played with a box of answers, it leads to more questions, well, just one, the same question actually, was it Pandora’s?

lol… that wasn’t REALLY my question!

Is it true I no longer want them? They eventually took the desire for granted until it, too, was lost in the mail…

I miss the passion. I doubt there will be passion like it again. I tried to recreate it.

Is return possible? I too can sabotage things.

I want what I had with them preserved. On some level there is still love and understanding, but they hate anybody who loves them. They derive satisfaction from seeing other people proved wrong.

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