Currently listening to:The girl in 14 G by Kristin Chenoweth
by Sophie Rosenblum
My mother’s blog is the newest member of our family. She spends hours with the screen sharing news and thoughts from home. She writes about burnt grass from fireworks, airplanes overhead, the lemonade our neighbors have. To get attention, I write things in the comments. First I write, You’re a faggot. Then, two minutes later, I write, I agree. That night at dinner she flickers. “I got two comments today!” she says. It was then I saw lonely. A drafty room, the space between waves. It was a month of guilt. I deleted the comments. Started writing new ones. Best blog ever or Please expand on that super-fun paragraph on powdered sugar looking like snow. My mother’s face hardened.
“I’m exhausted,” she says. “The more I write, the more they want.”
“They love you,” I say.
She pulls me close.
“But honey,” she says, “I don’t love them.”
Spent most of today in the company of friends, safe, anchored so securely to the flickering ledge. Far flung between uncontrolled exhilarated giggles in starbucks and rock bottom despondency with no middle ground. I should possibly stop reading so much depressing literature, but i cannot help it. I don’t seem to ever come across happy stories, maybe because they don’t exist. All the most engaging literature is melancholic at best, and as infectious as dye in water. On the plus side, i have been reading my academic texts.. finally finished Fistful of colors (hated the ending, did not like the book, got miffed over the fact that i had to read it) and started on Abraham’s Promise (WAY better). Also, with not enough time to start on whole books for leisure per se, i’ve been indulging in short stories.. which brings us back to the beginning. So circular, this life. I think i have an essay due. I am hungry now which is great, because i have V DAY CUPCAKES thank you candzzz.
“I think about how sometimes I want happiness, sometimes I want sadness, sometimes I want loud and sometimes quiet. For a while I start to convince myself that I am uncertain of what I want, but that is not true. I know exactly what I want and that has always been passion, regardless of the form it comes in. I am dying and living to be absorbed by my states. I see it come true whenever I walk into any room, I transform twenty times a day into a new passion but nonetheless the same passion because it’s the same ardor for poles that one could ever have.”