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00:29 - May 05, 2002 I tried his way, the quashing, the forceful pushing back of the stomping urge, the tantrum urge, the screaming urge, and what was I angry about in the first place? I don't remember, and it kept building, unfed, in the pit of my stomach. There are the little things, but eventually, it ends up with one face impassive and the other pleading, and I see my mother in me in the position I swore I'd never be in, after Erik. My mother crying in her apartment saying she knows how bad a mother she is, and how she misses me, and me standing there, arms crossed, not making a single fucking move to go to her because somebody has to keep it together, and I don't want to cry with my mother anymore. I won't even hug her! What am I thinking? Mike wouldn't either; Mike is me, I am my mother, except I don't cry, because of this experimental no-feelings thing, and there is nothing to cry about except his stupid fucking expressionless face, which he is only giving because I am making less and less sense as I go along. It's just this air he puts out that he is never at fault, and he is not wrong, and is way is better, and everyone should respect that, and look at his art, and listen to his music, but when it comes time to have him listen or look at your things, it's suddenly not important anymore; at the very most, a chore. I can see him reading through this now, skimming it, looking for something to contradict; not really noticing it. Three years ago I would have left right then. While I was asleep, I dreamed a phrase; the whole dream was a phrase; 'you're the type of person who makes me feel grossly inadequate as an artist and as a human being.' over and over and over, and a squishy ball and dirty socks, and when I woke up I realized it was true, and he was not in the room, and there was an icon on his computer jumping up and down, and when he got back I wanted to do something violent and childish. But I remember Erik's slamming doors, the endless 'talks', and didn't. Level the voice. Smile. Etc. I am not cut out for my heart rate to stay a straight line. I cannot deal with people who do not feel things. I cannot talk to him. It pisses me off. How are you supposed to have a discussion? There is no pull, either way. He won't hug you or comfort you because he can't fathom others having strong feelings; if he doesn't himself. And he seems to think you're somehow lower on the maturity rung if you can't control your brain with a push of a button like he can, which I, in a way, envy.. I do... but in a larger way seriously gives me the creeps, in the same way that a book about the future being full of robots gives me the creeps. I like the idea of suffering for brilliance, which always turns out to be a lot of suffering for a little bit of brilliance, anyway. And this is not brilliance. It was, in my head, in the car, while I was screeching off at stop lights and raving on the way home, fucking karma fucking asshole fucking deja vu fucking fucking fucking, but that was raw, and that was pain, and tha defeated the purpose of playing it cool, which I will never ever do again. And writing this down defeats the purpose of playing it for him, because he will read this, and I know this, but it's different now, it's different when he's not perched on furniture with those blue eyes that say to everything: 'so?' ----
if you do.. -Silverchair, 'Blind'
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