Oh, Aimee Mann. But will it stop even if we do wise up? Can't say that I'm sure. Seems lately the wiser I get, the worse I fare. Weaving in and out of veritable strangers' lives; meeting them, as I always seem to inadvertently do (or perhaps I inspire it), at a fall-apart crossroads and they crash into me. Then, realizing what they've done, they pick up and run.
"I've said too much."
Well, no, because now, in your silence, there isn't enough. Sometimes.
The alternative reaction is that they cling. Hard. And then I run. So regardless, someone is always out of breath, and not in the good way. I'm still hoping for the day when I bump into someone parallel fashion and we happen to lean on each other for a while, standing straight up, but just providing some momentary and much-needed rest before projecting out into the world again.
Sometimes I just wish it'd all quiet down. And by it I primarily mean my mind, full of its own endless banter and chewed-up distortions of everything that's ever been said to me or around me throughout my entire life.
Liquid quiet: the one where your heart doesn't palpitate out of your chest so hard that you have to meditate, desperately, just to stop shaking. And there is no peace, nor perhaps even meditation, in desperation. I wish I could begin my days with a sense of normalcy rather than having to claw and spit up to a place where I can function without shaking straight onto the floor.
And do you have any idea what a wrench panic throws into eyeliner application? Seriously, ladies. Can I get a "WHAT"?
(Sorry--won't do that again. [Maybe.])
So off I go into another week of creating and writing other people's lives, which then makes up my life, which then becomes again, not my own, but a sort of meta-life. It's both a privilege and a source of utter, full exhaustion.
But I will not lose hope.
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