Like That Time I Thought I Knew What I Wanted

IIIIIIIIIIIIT'S the last day of February. I'm going to post another stream of consciousness thing.

Sometimes my mind just takes off, it just takes off and goes and goes like it’s on speed. Like the time I said it was nice seeing you on the escalator the other day, only I didn’t say that I thought it quietly to myself but I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I don’t know why I asked you what kind of music you like instead. I’m terribly exhausted right now but I’m still awake right now, waiting for you to answer me or for me to get fed up and just leave. Actually, I’m hoping that I’ll produce something brilliant tonight, my mind works best when I’m tired. Like that time I wrote a stream of consciousness essay for English class in grade 11 about death. It made absolutely no sense but my teacher loved it. I don’t know why. It was clearly bullshit. Sometimes I get away with things like that. Sometimes I don’t listen to music and I don’t realize the silence. I guess I don’t really have anything else to say about you. Actually, I know I don’t. That poem is true in many ways but it is also a big lie. Kind of like my life. I can’t write beautiful things like Riese does. In some odd way, I wish she would read my stuff and approve. I think that would mean a lot to me. Maybe it’s because I think we’re kindred spirits of some sort, though I don’t really know if I’m using that in the right context. We’re very similar is what I mean, I get her. When I read her stuff I know what she’s talking about. I’m good at analysing situations, and people. Afterwards, though. When I’m alone. I can see people very clearly. Maybe it’s for that reason I hate small talk. Maybe I just want to get to the point and prove myself right – that you’re this kind of person or that kind of person. I don’t know what kind of person you are because you keep surprising me. Like that time you came up behind me on the escalator, like that time you listened to what I was saying. Maybe you’re going to read this and maybe you’re going to know I’m talking about you. Maybe then you’re going to know the poem was about you. Don’t worry, I am not in love with you at all, simply the idea of you. That makes it worse. Does that make me shallow? Does it make me empty that I can’t see you for who you are.

Sorry I’m just revisiting this now. I mean I totes read it when you wrote it like 4 days ago but I’m revisiting it now because I don't think I realized you wrote something nice. I’m also in a stream of consciousness writing mood right now which I guess is why I’m coming back to this. Do you ever get in those moods? I hope I help to increase your will to live and restore your faith in humanity. Wait I’m going to copy and paste this into my original document, you're going to see it on Saturday. Goodnight. Really, I do, I hope I increase your will to live and restore your faith in humanity, ‘cause it’s there. I mean, everything that we need is here. I’m running away now, I guess. I don’t know where that came from, I was listening to music and I was on facebook and I was not writing this and all of a sudden that sentence popped into my head. And it’s my informal rule that when writing a stream of conscious I must just write, write, write, no matter how nonsensical it is. I like that word, nonsensical. There are, of course, pauses that you don’t see. But I try and fill those somehow, I try to make up for it and sometimes I can’t even see the end of the sentence but it’s important to keep typing, like my life depends on it or something. It’s so annoying that word still doesn’t capitalize my ‘I’s. I have to stop and backspace. It’s like I’m interrupting myself. I like streams of consciousness because I think it shows me for who I really am, despite how corny that sounds. I mean, I think it shows me in all my bare, I don’t want to say nakedness, but that’s what I mean. It shows me like primitive living. Like this is all I have, this is what’s in my head and sometimes it’s crazy but it sure as hell feels good to just dump everything onto a page. I’m literally recording my thoughts as they happen. It’s jumpy because sometimes I stop and talk to other people. Like right now when someone reminded me of that time in grade 7 or 8 when Tania shouted “I’m not a baby!” and smashed her yogurt on the table and it exploded everywhere. I said something about the escalator. I’m back in real time now, real moments. Sometimes I gotta reminisce. There’s silence on the other end. I can’t even bother to worry about what you’re thinking. I don’t really care. To me you’re an idea, a form, an outline. I don’t think this is the blogging way of writing. This is just how I write. And now, for real, goodnight.

On second thought, the letter to Alessia taken out of context sounds really nice. “Sorry I’m just revisiting this now.” I like that, I like the way it sounds. Sorry I’m just revisiting this now.

I'm not going to ask you to comment because no one does. But you can if you want to.

"But really nothing has changed, today.
You can't go on this way, you can't move on.
Erase it,
Start it again."
- Sparta "Erase It Again"