"Welcome to the eleven o'clock news. A women dies after exiting a moving vehicle on the 110 freeway. A man dead and a teen arrested. More on these stories after the weather. Tonight, a low of sixty-five, no chance of rain. Tomorrow, a high of 85 with a low of 65. And Friday, a high of 86 and a low of 65. Thereafter, constant Los Angeles meteorlogical stagnation. The same weather every day, no chance of rain, no chance of clouds, so bring your sun screen and hope to hell you don't fry to death walking down the city streets."
I can't do it.
Exit 10 is Coal Creek Parkway, 11, I-90, 13, NE 4th. Somewhere past 520 Eastbound, I watch the side of the road as I waited in traffic. A huge orange machine was tearing away at the plants on the side of the freeway; accross the way drills tore through the cement of the carpool lanes at NE 124th St. Strewn beside the highway were logs and bushes, torn out by these machines. There was no specific organizations, merely high speed destruction of what took years to grow. And while the wonder of deconstruction is always a marvel at which one gapes in awe, I couldn't help but wonder, "How much paper could they make out of that log?" While paper is to some degree important, I realize the in the end this question really didn't matter; not because we don't need paper. I desperately need paper, some way to let loose things that should never be confined; however what good is paper and a pen when you do not know what to say?
I've run out of language. I can't express what I have any more. Single words come up to define in some sort of ethereal sense what it is that bothers me so much. Quiet lists: alone, unwanted, unworthy. And while I know that some of these are untrue, knowledge and feelings are quite seperate realms.
I can't come up with the words to say it in person.
I can't do it.
For every time to open my mouth to speak, contrivances laden with imperfections escape and I don't know what to say next. Further inquiry is useless for I have already run away, hiding my eyes in shame from the questions which can only serve to help me. Or, even worse, so frightened of my own admissions I lie my way back to the top... put on a smile and laugh it off.
I'm done.
I hate myself for saying this.
I watch you deal with the things that bring you down. Some of them I understand, some of them I even identify with. Other's I will never begin to comprehend. This is the nature of relations, you cannot understand everything. I try to help when you are sad, I try to be there for you, quiet words and light touches, for I never was good with investigative questioning like my mother. But what to do when you are happy I don't know. When you laugh I feel left out, like a joke that I missed, a life that just passed me by. This is resentment, though solely of myself. Why can't I be the one who makes you laugh? Who makes you so excited that you talk at a mile a minute, who inspires you to conjure goofy stories?
Can't, can't, can't.
I'll never be good enough. Not for you. Not for anyone.
So please, don't lie to me. Don't tell me that I'm everything that I'm not. God, I'm scared.
I've got a problem and I don't know what to do about it. For so long I've thought I was transparent, that all those around me could see straight through the insane faces right into me. But it's come around that this is not the case, and I'm aware now that I'm as opaque as a brick sinking in the black water. And now that the impetus is on me to cry for help I don't know what to do. How can I break this facade? How can I tell the truth? I don't know the answer. "Why do you feel sad?" I don't know. "How come you can't sleep?" I don't know. "How are you doing today?" I don't know. Or do I and I'm too afraid to admit to myself what's really going on here.
You've got your things you need to deal with. You've got your Dad, you've got your school-work, you've got your friends, how can I possibly ask you to add me to this list? I'm not your responsibility, but how I wish I could be.
Breathe, just breathe Matt, it's going to be... it's going to be... okay. Please, let me be okay.
I can't do it.
Exit 10 is Coal Creek Parkway, 11, I-90, 13, NE 4th. Somewhere past 520 Eastbound, I watch the side of the road as I waited in traffic. A huge orange machine was tearing away at the plants on the side of the freeway; accross the way drills tore through the cement of the carpool lanes at NE 124th St. Strewn beside the highway were logs and bushes, torn out by these machines. There was no specific organizations, merely high speed destruction of what took years to grow. And while the wonder of deconstruction is always a marvel at which one gapes in awe, I couldn't help but wonder, "How much paper could they make out of that log?" While paper is to some degree important, I realize the in the end this question really didn't matter; not because we don't need paper. I desperately need paper, some way to let loose things that should never be confined; however what good is paper and a pen when you do not know what to say?
I've run out of language. I can't express what I have any more. Single words come up to define in some sort of ethereal sense what it is that bothers me so much. Quiet lists: alone, unwanted, unworthy. And while I know that some of these are untrue, knowledge and feelings are quite seperate realms.
I can't come up with the words to say it in person.
I can't do it.
For every time to open my mouth to speak, contrivances laden with imperfections escape and I don't know what to say next. Further inquiry is useless for I have already run away, hiding my eyes in shame from the questions which can only serve to help me. Or, even worse, so frightened of my own admissions I lie my way back to the top... put on a smile and laugh it off.
I'm done.
I hate myself for saying this.
I watch you deal with the things that bring you down. Some of them I understand, some of them I even identify with. Other's I will never begin to comprehend. This is the nature of relations, you cannot understand everything. I try to help when you are sad, I try to be there for you, quiet words and light touches, for I never was good with investigative questioning like my mother. But what to do when you are happy I don't know. When you laugh I feel left out, like a joke that I missed, a life that just passed me by. This is resentment, though solely of myself. Why can't I be the one who makes you laugh? Who makes you so excited that you talk at a mile a minute, who inspires you to conjure goofy stories?
Can't, can't, can't.
I'll never be good enough. Not for you. Not for anyone.
So please, don't lie to me. Don't tell me that I'm everything that I'm not. God, I'm scared.
I've got a problem and I don't know what to do about it. For so long I've thought I was transparent, that all those around me could see straight through the insane faces right into me. But it's come around that this is not the case, and I'm aware now that I'm as opaque as a brick sinking in the black water. And now that the impetus is on me to cry for help I don't know what to do. How can I break this facade? How can I tell the truth? I don't know the answer. "Why do you feel sad?" I don't know. "How come you can't sleep?" I don't know. "How are you doing today?" I don't know. Or do I and I'm too afraid to admit to myself what's really going on here.
You've got your things you need to deal with. You've got your Dad, you've got your school-work, you've got your friends, how can I possibly ask you to add me to this list? I'm not your responsibility, but how I wish I could be.
Breathe, just breathe Matt, it's going to be... it's going to be... okay. Please, let me be okay.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
How's the lady??