Oh, me

I hate crying. More than i hate cliche’s. Less than i hate liars. I want to laugh. I want to laugh so hard that everything hurts- my back, my sides, my head. But not so hard that i cry. Because i hate to cry. Can you make me laugh? I’d like to see you try.

I think that there are monsters that walk among us. Monsters that look just like us. Monsters that live in mirrors. I think that there are monsters in every one of us. That it’s a fight to not be that monster. Because being the monster is what’s easy, and being who you are is what’s hard. I fight the monster every day. I hope i’m not the only one fighting. I hope that i’m not the only that knows that there is something to fight. Monsters are scary, because they look just like man. I look in the mirror. I see my monster. I kick it’s ass.

I want to be me. I dont want for there to be another me walking around in a clever guise. I know who i am. Which means, at the same time, I’m constantly looking for who i am, and trying to understand who i am. I want to surround myself with the kind of people that are few and far between.

I write. I write and write and write. Because that’s the only way. I ask too many questions. Too many, because there arent enough answers. I can be profound, but mostly when i don’t mean to be. When i write about purple monkeys, and mole people, Big Brother, and the paradox of four equaling five. I write. Because, at times, it’s like i know nothing else. Not how to breathe, or speak, or blink, or send electricity through my synapses to make my heart beat. I like to bend the words. Borrow their meaning. Ask them to be something, to mean something. I want to manipulate them, turn them into a scandelous copy of what’s really going on in my mind. Try and convey perfection through imperfection, though what’s perfect may be imperfect anyway. I write when i can’t write. An explanation for why i’m afraid of the words; of the perfect imperfect.

Call me an idealist. I’ll laugh. Call me a pessimest. I’ll ask for a glass. Call me an optomist. I’ll tell you it’s full. Call me a realist. I’ll listen.