Moving places I've never been.
It was not spontaneity. There were no gutsy moves. I have no guts.
How could I?
I used to talk everything to death. I still do, but back then it was more safe. Back then it was just talk. Back then I did not make any defining lines between imagination and plans. Things never just happened, because things never happened at all.
But now imagination is something I find necessary to point at and laugh with. Who the fuck would want to imagine anything if it is not going to be beautiful?
The year has already let us down so many times.
Who the fuck wants to keep making plans when they know they might fall through and why the fuck would anyone think imagination would lend you hope or the chance of something beautiful?
This pessimist speaks to me at night, in dreams, when I'm not there to fight back. They get into valves that become too rusty to pump and blood pools out of my throat until I'm spitting it out, seedy and thick, screaming "I'M SICK OF THIS!I'M SICK OF THIS!"
I'm sick of this. I am sick.
The year had made me so fucking ill with this.
And how badly I have wanted to give up.
But the day does come, and there are phone calls home.
And you are always laughing.
And how dare I give up on the hope of good fortune when this year has gone by, and I can still hear you , despite everything, telling me your post-op plans...as though they sound delightful, and sleepy.
How dare I deny you of that resilience,
of that beauty?