I'm my own favorite idiot (I've gone and bit my bottom lip to blood).

I’m teetering between sensibility and insanity more than usual lately. My insane thoughts, the extremely hopeful, dreamy thoughts that I have been known to convince myself may happen and prevail and may just become reality, are completely weighed equally alongside my doubts, fears, and what would probably seem the more obvious and detrimental outcome. Which is why I’d prefer not to ask questions or hear unwanted gestures that could lead to the smack on the flat top of my head that I've nearly come to expect, and leave me half-buried straight in the ground, in something most would refer to as "reality".

Because what? What, really could come of those thoughts beside the simple simplicity of appreciating someone, something, some time spent to it’s fullest, most worthwhile extent, all while nodding it, and its dirty surroundings, off.

Nodding it off, acknowledging it silently and moving along, perhaps questioning it for some time after in guilt, or perhaps with no remorse at all. I don’t even know but I think of all of this when it’s inconvenient and when I should be thinking of other things and even, when I’m sleeping.

I want to remember what it is to be heatedly alive in brief moments, and the painful, uncontrollable laughter that sometimes accompanies them. I want to get lost in those moments. I want to forget about New York City and the rat race it most often is nowadays—I want to, in moments, forget about everything sensible; I want Hollywood, no I want DISNEY, endings. I want an Amelie soundtrack and the tears and the laughs I’ve come to associate it with. I want to spin around in an open place, whether it be in a cement parking lot, grass field or beach (or just completely metaphorically), and I somehow want to be doused in warm water, shaking my wet hair in my face, until I am dizzy. And I want to land, lay down winded and panting laughter, in your armpit, or what has become what I think it would be like. And just natter about little things like cereal, or bigger things like music, songs, and movie quotes that I don’t remember or even know. But never anything, I never want to talk about anything like politics, money, and what other people think about those subjects in any regard, to any capacity. I want to put the gray past in our pockets and let it sprout later; we can talk about it some other time. I want youthful music and to somehow record the sound of a snowflake falling, landing, and melting on my tongue and the cracking of your slight smile and creaking of your bones as you shrug, thereafter.



Sensibility is long gone, but I’ll probably find it when I wake up abruptly and catch myself saying, “what the fuck?!”. Jesus, I should be shot. Or put away, at least for a few days.