“You can’t wake up if you don’t fall asleep.” I reckon the last time I sat with my thoughts was in a quiet panic. And judging the eruption. The approximate fires. It’s not comfort when the person attempting comfort tells you what you know as if you’d never thought of it. (But it’s love.) (Still.) Assume I’ve thought of everything, and tell me as if I know. (Tenderly.) I told you I wouldn’t write confessional poetry and I wouldn’t put you in it. (And this isn’t the truth and you’re no secret.) I take pleasure in knowing I will have to experience loneliness every day. One more time. I take pleasure in knowing I will have to experience my loneliness, every day, forever. That’s what I tell my thoughts: I take pleasure in you. When I was 15, a small movie theater (its existence and the programming within) (and not to alarm (because I cannot put it another way)) saved my life. I took each image like metaphor for my alienation. I tucked them away as promises for future validations. I made my life out of films, you know, the very one I sit with now. Made, in part, of thoughts, yes, but also ideas and, sure, things that really happened.
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