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In an ideal world, I learn latin, speak fluent French,  am the model straight A+ student that the school so desperately wants me to be so that the fucking VCE coodinator can fucking approve my applications,  a better friend, write better emails, speak more confidently, be proud of myself, learn to love more, be happy, not stuck with crappy music, meet an eccentric person, be less angry, write more, write beautifully, have more things to say, doing something,

anything.

In an ideal world anything is possible.

the only thing i can do at the moment is try and run away in my head, as far as possible out of this claustrophobic breath-grappling place, which chokes me with incumbent violation and i need a place to break down. the mind and the soul: can the mind exist outside the soul? well not anywhere here in this place with dried air and fucking barren land twisted slangs and arrogant wimps. i want to go back to narrow lanes and cool bicycle mornings, zigzag streets and confusing trains which is not fucking connex.

anywhere but here. back to humid temperatures and hot sunny days in autumn, to modern technology and nil kangaroos, vending machines, cigarette smoke trains, american english, mobile savvy, everything else and more which here doesn’t exist. alice in wonderland, cheshire cat, mat hatter, ponyo, peter pan. whirly whirl and whirl.

a call for cause, not here, not anywhere here. I need to get out of this place.

It’s a terrible thing that you can’t stop love, but you can prevent it. I hate these sad truths in life, because they are so irrevocably true. Bloody truths. Damned C’s. All the stories I can manage to write are just words that I don’t have the courage to say in real life. It’s all imaginary.

“Can you stop your purposeful words and accentuated gentleness in your mock ambition? I don’t need to hear your meaning on being a better person.”

I can see your surprised, almost shocked look. Taken aback by the fact that I had actually said those exact words to you, pinpointing them right into where it hurts the most. Your face is scrunched into tiny frowns, elapsing into a tilt in the head and your eyes look almost regretful, in pain, in shame.

“It’s true. Everytime I speak with you, you need to have some sort of power over me. I don’t need that, I don’t need you patronizing me,” I press on, and I can see more of that shame slowly dissolving into a defensive glare.

You say nothing so that allows space for me to continue. “First the text messages, next the lies. What’s left to be said? Truthful lies? What is your excuse for a truthful lie anyway and since when does a lie becomes truthful? Does it mean two wrongs make a right?”

I will leave no room for explaining or reasoning or even bargaining. I will know that I deserve more than these compliant excuses, persuading and the other side of the story. Well, there is no “other side of the story”.

I will leave, and never come back.

But more than anything else I wished I said those exact words and walked right out from the middle of that lunch, that fucking conversation. It didn’t make sense at all, and it was all jagged and weird and confusing. It was a trap. I wish I had the bravery to do that. I wished I left and never came back.

Now do you see the truth of the possibilities of surrealism and true dimensional history?

I can’t possibly foster a love this vulnerable at any cost, because I know I’ll end up breaking it. It’s because I’m an immovable mess, being perfectly wrecked so that everything is still dislodged in the puberty of time. Sure, I am incapable of this and totally culpable for the events that happened like domino tiles. whoosh they will fall clickety-clack into the ground one by one and continue falling, and it doesn’t stop.

Who are you and who am I? I don’t know you because you are a stranger and I don’t know you completely yet I sense a hinge of claustrophobia I will infect you like a disease. Slowly but readily, we can pass by and I wonder who you are because I will have no previous memory of you. When defining you, it’s hard to say who. There’s too many selfs in this world, you and you and you.

The room is being hypnotic and lousy, fucking Sundays. I’d give anything to see a happy ending right now, the generic Disneyland endings or singsong sentiments.

When I say ‘go away’ I mean both things – go away and don’t go away. How do you do that both at the same time? No one listens to me because it doesn’t matter; it’s ok really, I don’t mind because I know the lack of lack is indeed the dominant tyrant, and when I say ‘I’m depressed’ I mean multitude of things – I am depressed but I don’t want to talk, I am depressed but I don’t want to talk but I want to talk.

In the end it’s all about choice.

I’d figure if I make enough noise, someone will probably hear me. Afterall, that’s the theory isn’t it? If the decibels of my voice manages to diffuse into the enclosed space between me and you, then maybe you’ll come talk to me. However desperate, there will at least be a response. I shouldn’t be hesitant, the keypads are near, pushing the buttons is easy.

Maybe it’s the voices that’s hard to cope. Listening to a reason, trying to understand. And I don’t have that courage or empathy, the most I’ll say “please, don’t be” and barely convincing. Or it could be not trying hard enough, not reassuring but panicking instead.

So what am I doing? I feel like this is running away, escaping from the truth, unwillingly knowing that all I want to do is talk and listen; listen and talk whichever way that’s appropriate. I can almost envision it, the dialing routine, monotonous ringing, click – “hello?” the first squeak that determines the openness of the conversation. I can feel everything churning, a mixer mixer mixer “shit you’re such a coward”

It’s not that hard, I try and coo myself. Breathe, press, listen. Talk at the most. If this fails, then there’s nothing I can possibly help to do right? Right. And besides, talking would be so much more interesting than a monologue right? Talking to yourself isn’t going to help.

Breathe. Press. Listen. Breathe.