Expense reports. Time sheets mixed with “Motion to Stand” am I over?
Real life got real. Fast. The thing I have learned about “growing up” is that you learn to exist within a different rule set. “In terms of” is a phrase I have regurgitated and heard several times. “Dovetail”. “Folks”. “Business Development”… etc.
Can I be real? I don’t even know why I’m asking this. As Childish Gambino says, “So I learned cut out the middle man, make it all for everybody, always. Everybody can’t turn around and tell everybody, everybody already knows, I told them.” More importantly, “But this means there isn’t a place in my life for you or someone like you. Is it sad? Sure. But it’s a sadness I chose.”
Maybe, for a moment.
Can I be real? Can I tell you what happened, the past few days, the past week, the past month? Can I tell you how confused I have been with him and him and more him can I tell you how my BEST FRIEND gave me a massage, can I tell you how we cuddled because WE HAD TO can I tell you how I kissed another him can I tell you how the drink tasted great can I tell you how another guy who texts me tells me about the date he’s on can I tell you about reincarnation and being and now and tomorrow and yesterday? Can I tell you about my wishes? Can I mention my wants? Can I tell you my fears and how it hurts and how I’m chronically dissatisfied? Can I tell you how I’ll never grow the fuck up? How books will hurt me always how answers become questions become answers and infinity is a number? How this sounds hipster and idealistic and all of this is my worst nightmare?
The statement is this: I don’t want to review anything. I don’t want to know about how design is this or Apple is this or how pork belly is this. I don’t want to know anything about this “thisness”. I don’t want to be commanded to answering anything. I also understand a “just because” isn’t an answer, either.
La mal du pays. A groundless sadness. Homesickness.
To feel. To feeling.