everything is a copy of a copy of a copy

I can’t tell if the things that happen to me are really that bizarre and the universe has some weird obsession with me or if I just over-romanticize everything. I guess neither of those alternatives is a bad thing.

I’m going to the movies with Colin on Sunday, I’m pretty excited about that. Tomorrow I have to go to this Scholastic ceremony with my family and Kelly for all those awards I won and it’s at the Museum of Fine Arts and I know it’ll be fun. I want to focus on my writing more because the fact that I have so many underdeveloped things floating around is really tearing me apart.

I think it’d be fun to be a waitress if I was to have a job. I used to hate that thought, but now there’s this romantic appeal. I think lately I just like the idea of it.

Colin told me that the first thing he ever noticed about me was my dramatic hair flip. He told me that one day last year, he saw me walking and that he noticed I had a very deliberate walk, that I walk with purpose, with my shoulders back, fast, like I know my destination. He said he remembered that I was wearing a white dress and it was really bright on that day and he looked up and saw this angelic glow and he even remembered he was reading Watchmen that day. I don’t know who the fuck remembers things like that except for me.

Bad war flashbacks.

I am dying to read more, everything I can, because I feel like I’ve been producing more than I have been consuming and there’s just this imbalance, but I don’t have time. I know I don’t have time for ANYTHING unless I make time but I don’t have time.

And at the same time there’s a lot I want to make. It’ll kill me before I figure it out.

Sometimes when I read things, it’ll feel like this voice that’s speaking straight out of me, and when I write, it’s so hard to feel that for some reason. It’s crazy. Other people’s thoughts are more coherent than my own.

I’m just so sick of everything I say. I feel like I keep ripping myself off.

I am a rip-off of myself. I’ve never had an original thought, I’ve stolen it all.  I repeat every word that comes out of my mouth. You are my inner voice?
You’ve heard it all before. I’ve heard it all before. You’ve seen it all before. I’ve seen it all before. You’ve said it all before.

Everything is made up, contrived, derivative, whenever I speak I spit it out in a collage, a patchwork of fabrics, repeating phrases, borrowed words. My old lovers melt into my new lovers. The places I’ve been melt into this one, the bridges of my childhood appear in my backyard, the ages stack up like cards, everything leading up to this moment has piled up.. I am impure. I want to put myself through the water filters and wash all the dirt out. I’ve borrowed this word from you. This word from you. I’ve borrowed all my words. I string them together and pretend it’s not old water. All water is old water. All of history has pressed me into this contrived form. I am the contrived rip-off of a rip-off of a rip-off created under pressure. There is nothing beautiful about it. I will never be clean. My thoughts are a part of a cycle of waste. I wish I could be in a vacuum. Still, clean, pure, unaffected.

I am an accidental thief. I borrow your survival instincts, I borrow your ideas about astronomy, I borrow your numerical system, your alphabet, your names for the parts of my body, your ideologies, your laws, the things you say to your loved ones, the ways that you accidentally seduce people, the way you wear your hair, the poetry you read, the poetry you spit out. Everything you spit out is a multiplication of all these infinite coinciding factors jumping and bumping into one another.

And when I move stones? I steal the sun’s fire. I steal the look in your eyes. I seduce you with the same look you give me. I seduce you with the look my past lovers have given me. Do you know it is my old lovers seducing you? Do you know it is the snarl of my father’s lip, the unsteadiness of my mother’s hands, the light trauma sprinkled over me by the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that? Do you know it is all of history seducing you? My history, the earth’s history, your history, the history of humanity, history, random facts that I have swept up, expectations.

It is not me. The whole world is seducing you. The whole universe and all of history has conspired to transmit these waves of light and sound.

I can’t escape the things that have happened to me, my experiences, what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard, what I’ve read, my family, everyone I’ve ever met, where I come from, you, where I’m going, my own destiny, my own psyche, my dreams, I can’t. I can’t. Will I ever be pure? Will I ever be free?





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