...
Whenever I try to pick apart other people's brains, there turns out to be not much there, or there is, but it's just too easy. I'm quite sure everyone is not like this, just most the people I know, thus I come to the conclusion I must have shit taste in people. Or maybe the alright people just know better than to spend too much time with me?
I desperately want to know more people. In person. I hate internet people, they aren't real. They are basic outlines of themselves, filled in with the allowances of my imagination. They aren't real. And the way they see me isn't real either. It's a whole mess of fail.
Not that the people here seem any more real. The people in the clubs are, for the most part, carbon copies. There's an obscene number of army folk here, thanks to the base. The swarms of clean, shaved crew cut jocks is enough to turn anyone off going out. Nothing to their discredit as individuals, but as a mass, it's mortifying. You can scan over the closest 30 people to you at the bar before encountering another female. And now imagine the odds of running into a gay lady. Scattered amongst the militant bachelors, are people you used to know. Or rather, people who think they used to know you. The clique of boys from 12th grade, who thought they were too hip to really talk to you, but dated a couple of your friends, so now think that it's *amazing* to run into you again. A couple girls from art class. The guy who had a crush on you but dated your ex instead. And then there's the requisite Barbie dolls. They're beautiful and they know it. They're lovely. They're busily posing for each other's camera clicking in the bathrooms. They're adorable, and if you weren't such a paranoid little girl about your own looks, you might think yourself one of them.
No one really seams real. So you start to wonder what the point to it all is.
I wish I was allowed to photograph it all.
Even if I were, the subjects wouldn't act natural, they'd pucker to the camera, flutter lashes at it, tilt heads, flex guns and flip manes. Although, all this would only prove further how fake it all is.
My door doesn't close, still.
And my mattress isn't on my bed in here, but on the floor in my sister's room.
I want a little corner to hide in until I stop feeling so tired.
I want someone to tell me stories. And to tell me about the world, and how big it is, until this feeling of it being so small and experienced and insignificant, might evaporate.
...
Whenever I try to pick apart other people's brains, there turns out to be not much there, or there is, but it's just too easy. I'm quite sure everyone is not like this, just most the people I know, thus I come to the conclusion I must have shit taste in people. Or maybe the alright people just know better than to spend too much time with me?
I desperately want to know more people. In person. I hate internet people, they aren't real. They are basic outlines of themselves, filled in with the allowances of my imagination. They aren't real. And the way they see me isn't real either. It's a whole mess of fail.
Not that the people here seem any more real. The people in the clubs are, for the most part, carbon copies. There's an obscene number of army folk here, thanks to the base. The swarms of clean, shaved crew cut jocks is enough to turn anyone off going out. Nothing to their discredit as individuals, but as a mass, it's mortifying. You can scan over the closest 30 people to you at the bar before encountering another female. And now imagine the odds of running into a gay lady. Scattered amongst the militant bachelors, are people you used to know. Or rather, people who think they used to know you. The clique of boys from 12th grade, who thought they were too hip to really talk to you, but dated a couple of your friends, so now think that it's *amazing* to run into you again. A couple girls from art class. The guy who had a crush on you but dated your ex instead. And then there's the requisite Barbie dolls. They're beautiful and they know it. They're lovely. They're busily posing for each other's camera clicking in the bathrooms. They're adorable, and if you weren't such a paranoid little girl about your own looks, you might think yourself one of them.
No one really seams real. So you start to wonder what the point to it all is.
I wish I was allowed to photograph it all.
Even if I were, the subjects wouldn't act natural, they'd pucker to the camera, flutter lashes at it, tilt heads, flex guns and flip manes. Although, all this would only prove further how fake it all is.
My door doesn't close, still.
And my mattress isn't on my bed in here, but on the floor in my sister's room.
I want a little corner to hide in until I stop feeling so tired.
I want someone to tell me stories. And to tell me about the world, and how big it is, until this feeling of it being so small and experienced and insignificant, might evaporate.
...
