Phenomenology

Somebody stole the little executive who’s in charge of my functioning, and now I can only exist in fleeting, unbalanced decision. A sentence here and there. 

A vision of heaven, walking through sloping lawns on long grass. A house, mostly gone. Walls gone like a dog with its legs splayed out in the sunshine, the roof, a triangle body. A bird, black bodied, red chested, flitting here and there.  

David Brooks, a man only able to write anecdotes, and I’m fucking worse, because I’m doing the same, but more self centered. 

Mothers day brunch, and I’m sitting on a manicured patio, and my aunt tells me about her husband, who replaces all his socks every December. A tangential discussion of a time before single use diapers. Hanging the cloth and having a fit, the wind throwing your work into the ground and its mud, house too new for a grass lawn. 

Is it working? Do you understand me? 

A series of recommended articles. “The people who everyone likes are often the loneliest,” “The shocking truth about loveliness, and what this phenomenon really means,” etc. Though is there a way to properly judge one’s own loneliness, one’s own loveliness? I don’t know what about my browsing history brought this to my feet. Narcissism? I do not trust the robots and their judgement. 

I’m fifteen and learning to journal and writing in circles, hunched over the question of if I’m being honest, or if I’m writing for an audience. Unable to help imagining being famous, authorial, authoritative. 

I’m starting to get sickened on it. 

I want to interview someone. I want to talk about more than all that I am. But this is so much easier, yeah? 

I’m eighteen and I’m writing a personal essay, arguing a faux passion of history, please let me into college. A history major, because everything deserves to be acknowledged. Because everyone deserves a chance to be important, and part of history. Onfim, etc. 

Selfishly, I just want to be remembered. I will be forgotten, and I want your attention. 

And standing on a dirt road, ten years old in the sunshine, eating penny candy and nobody dead, the only story I tell. Loving and boring and something and not much at all.

I need to make better art than this.