My honesty is flowing and coherent: 01 de junio de 2013
Is my diary completely honest? His honesty manifested in writing would be vulgar. Cum-stained blankets from white hospital rooms with bars in the windows, and slits in the doors for porridge. My honesty is flowing and coherent, vague ideas growing to bursting, dimples turning inside out, a heart dying to feel but nothing surfaces. Everything is gray and he connects with that, the futility, the gray. Other parts multiply and shatter the air with light.
There’s something about you that you should know. There’s a door at the end of the tunnel. Don’t be afraid of dead eyes.
He is a disturbed and ill-tempered recluse, obsessed with the idea that a past girlfriend’s mind is gone, or her consciousness has been altered in favor of evil, and that her will was against the transition. He says there is something in me that processes information the same way he does. I’m the only one he’s found like this.
Is he Kurt? The depression, the meaninglessness, the self-hatred and boredom and worry and confusion, the frustration. Would I have loved Kurt more than him even if they had identical personalities?
I feel I’m the therapist, I listen listen listen I make eye contact. My posture is oriented towards him, I respond appropriately. Is my purpose in life to reflect others in my eyes? Am I the comfort for a black hole? He sees himself in the wet puddles of my diary; he says I’m a genius for writing his feelings out. I think these feelings are universal now, I’m no longer worried that no one will appreciate it.
He thinks I’m the only one but there are a million others. Will I break his already fractured heart? I will, I will in the end. It’s always the same.