don't worry this will all be explained later

i'm fine, thanks

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

do we exist in locations or are we just on the internet now

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

Identities are just what we do with our bodies

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

I can’t get over the sneaking suspicion that the universe exists for me

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

If the world is so dark then why are there so many flowers

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

why do babies laugh

I remember when I used to write lines for a defunct art form  When feelings moved through me like breathe through a mask  And I thought magic existed within the dry lines of data When I used to condition my body into something less ugly  And your touch would provoke an automatic reflex to cry  When I thought I was a feelings person and not a number person  And didn’t recognize when I was becoming the opposite  When ideas weren’t as heavy  And I constructed elaborate theories of meaning  That could be summarized as:  All thought is space, color, touch, sound, texture  When I believed in ghosts, not gaming the system  And listened to music  And didn’t write the same thing over and over again  Well, I had one of those moments again  Tears fell from my eyes  And I raised my arms in the sky like Jesus  And fell into the music You look psychotic, he said  And then I returned to washing dishes And tried to remember what people were like  Why do babies laugh before learning language?  Is there a sense of silliness before meaning?  You can’t understand the things I’m saying  You look at me like you’re a baby  Laughing at textures and colors and shapes 

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

Is there ever a reason for these things?

I always had someone to talk to, for a while, but when I ran out of people to talk to I began to just talk to myself, to my phone. I turned to art.

I’m a very creative person, but I’ve never had any ideas of my own.

When I think of the number of friends I’ve lost, I sometimes wonder if I’m wrong, or the world just thinks I am.

Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing, so I google you. I find so many angry paintings. They’re beautiful, but angry. From what I hear, you spend all your time alone, painting these angry paintings. For a while I didn’t have any sympathy for you. But, now that everyone has left, I feel like you, alone, making angry, un-nuanced art.

Is there ever a reason for these things?

I feel a chill in the back of my head, often. I don’t know what it is. But, I feel like it’s the source of all this pain.

I figured I would be okay having distant friends, wandering from person to person with no real attachments, sensing general archetypes of people wherever I went and clinging to whatever archetypes were familiar, reminded me of friends from the past, replacing these past friends with categories.

And then I think: if the world is so dark why are there so many flowers? If the world is so lonely, why are there so many living things?

[soniatarg]

Sorry, you can’t hang your hat here. My conceptual hat rack must remain untainted. I apologize. So please hold onto your headwear.

Please come into my parlor and make yourself comfortable. But don’t sit on any particular sofa. Please take your seat on a piece of furniture with a number of legs and maybe a backrest. We won’t observe its texture — whether upholstery or velvet or something else altogether.

Let’s talk about ideas. But not the kind that you and I know. But other shapeless or shapely ideas we have never encountered. Tell me. What did you think tomorrow? That yesterday would surely be a strange day? Is this all you expected?

Did you mind that you were the fruit of an almond tree? Simply a figment of its dreamy slumber? I often thought I lived mostly in the minds of others.

Oh, please don’t crumple your hat. Am I frustrating you? I think it looks quite nice with your pregnant eyes. Are you upset with me?

Tell me how you’re feeling. That’s a feminine question.

Look in the mirror. Do you see me? Or you? It’s all the same, isn’t it? We can see our own eyes, but not when we’re blinking.

I look different when I don’t see myself. But I don’t know like what…this used to haunt me. But it’s alright. No one else seemed scared when they saw me.

I like your hair.

It reminds me of an orchestra. So many strings coming together beautifully.

I guess you are an instrument in a way. An instrument of thought, discovery, reflection. Who plays you? I once went to a concert of a dead piano soloist. His invisible fingers struck the keys of the player piano from the grave, and the conductor led a live symphony. Can an instrument play itself?

Sorry, what did you come here to say?

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

Loving your Sarah Ruhl/Beckett-esque writing here!

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

I saw you in a dream, once

I saw you in a dream, once. But, I don’t remember it. It was so long ago. I saw you, and you disappeared. That feels like forever ago, and now feels like never and then feels like always. You were different. You knew my insides. You flew into the clouds, and I followed you there. But, then you disappeared, without explanation, without discussion. But, it was just a dream, wasn’t it? It was all just a dream. And dreams don’t matter, right? They’re just neuronal clutter. They’re our brain’s garbage disposal system. You were a useless dream. You were a wasted year. I’ve uncluttered my mind. And now, I’m someone different. I’m someone different without you. My neurons fire differently, now. If scientists put my brain in a scanner they wouldn’t be able to recognize that it was the same brain that you used to talk to. The only commonality is nothing. I don’t like art anymore, either, did you hear? I’m more rational now. Isn’t that funny, that we can go from caring about people in our social circle to just not? That the little daily things they do matter one day and then they don’t? That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you? Maybe I’m just different from everyone.

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

the committee

I sit on this committee, I sit on lots of committees and we, um, We agree on things? It’s very boring, very tedious work, I hate meetings I just agree with people to speed them up With the loudest person in the room who speaks up first Who everyone else tends to agree with, too. They always start with ice-breakers I don’t know anyone who likes ice-breakers But, the social psychologists say That if you don’t talk at the beginning of the meeting You won’t talk for the rest of it, So basically we’re slaves to the social psychologists.

So, anyway, We sit around these long, oval tables, Sometimes someone brings snacks, Presents a PowerPoint, Writes something on a white-board Or gives us a set of sticky-notes, Telling us to brainstorm ideas -- One idea per sticky note. And we -- decide things.

Oh, we decide -- I’m never very good at explaining what I do. There I go again. What “I do.” We don’t really have a name or a website or anything and we don’t really have positions, per se, it’s still a job, we still get paid and everything, but there aren’t like interviews and job applications and business cards in the traditional sense, you only get hired if you know people, I think, at least, I don’t really remember how I got into it, I just stumbled into it and have been doing it forever...

Anyway, we take things... We take a big bunch of things and break them down into smaller things, we decide on the boundaries between things, and then put other things into pre-existing things that were decided on previously, if that makes any sense.

Sorry is this -- am I boring you? Like the boundaries between colors, Where the middle ends and the end starts, Where lust becomes love becomes hate becomes whatever confused emotion you don’t know you’re feeling -- we decide what that is, too, we decide everything really, everything you can think of, at least, what those things are, if this is making any sense, sorry if this isn’t making any... Whether to think of something as set or a spectrum or a hierarchy or nothing at all, or whether to render something unthinkable and eliminate it altogether, or whether to revisit something we previously eliminated, we get things wrong of course, this is hardly an exact science, it’s more a a pseudoscience, it’s like the DSM-5, sorry if that was offensive I hope you’re not a psychologist, I especially hope you’re not the psychologist who made us all do ice-breakers, but if you were a psychologist I’d assume you’d be much more than just a psychologist at heart right because there’s much more to a person than... It’s like the DSM-5 but instead of classifying disorders we classify, you know, everything, and disorders as well because I guess that’s included, I don’t really know why we do what we do, I suppose it’s necessary, it makes everything less, disorderly... sorry... it’s like someone has to do it, you know?

Sorry I’m not good at talking about myself.

It’s very dry work. I don’t really agree with anyone on our decisions. I’m not sure if anyone would really agree with me, though, so I don’t really bring up my ideas. I have a few good ideas, though. I daydream a lot, while staring at patterns in the carpet during the meetings.

Sorry. I’ve talked about me too much.

What do you do?

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

the great many things that exist underneath

So, as I was saying Around three conversation threads ago I was trying to tell you But, you kept interrupting with your face And when you told me to speak I got nervous and forgot What I was going to say

And what I was going to say was When you think about it When you really think about it When you think hard But when you think soft And your brain gets soft And your heart gets soft And you tilt your head slightly to the side And you squint You realize there exists A great number of things that exist Below all things With every thing There exists something below

Which is the only thing that really exists When you are Thinking something Or saying something

But Instead of communicating the thing That is underneath You communicate the thing That is on top

Because that is the only thing That people will respond to And then you start to wonder if they don’t See this thing that you have always seen

And when you communicate this frustration People will say ah yes Sometimes I relate to this

But you doubt this Because that private thing you hold within yourself You’ve never seen properly communicated Through art or history or science or literature or history of science

Most things are here or there But these things are nowhere For convenience let’s call them The unintelligable the ineffable the inexpressible Qualia quantia numina ouiouioui nunununu The insides the underneath For convenience let’s not call them anything at all For convenience let’s turn off the lights And play music so loud you can’t hear yourself think

I don’t think I’ve found anyone Who wants to talk about these things with me Which makes me think that Everyone must have different insides than me Unless of course their insides are exactly like this But they never talk about their insides because they think That no one else’s insides are like this Or they like me don’t know how to talk about their insides

Language relies on an overlap Something that is said must be recognized But there is an area of experience that is unique to you But these could not be put into words Because no one else has felt them before except you Why would you make words for things you haven’t felt? And when you try to create crude combinations of other people’s words for these feelings They don’t come close And when you try to come up with a word for this wordless thing It is gibberish to anyone but you

Language is social Yet there exists private antisocial realm That will never overlap with anyone else’s

And when I try to explain this to you You latch onto something tiny That was not even close to what I was saying And try to refute it You always try to dominate the conversation And then I think What is the point of even expressing these thoughts anymore What is the point of having these thoughts So I stop having these thoughts I stop thinking And I feel better that way Because you don’t like it when I think

If I were to see a ghost right now I really wouldn’t mind it If a giant really scary ghost were to come from right over there and walk right up to me I wouldn’t even bat an eye If I giant really scary ghost were to come from right over there and ask to possess me I would say yes A soon as I speak a truth it becomes false And the opposite becomes true Am I making any sense? It makes me want to Say things less Did it get cold in here? Or is that just me? 

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

I had a dream where I met this artist I admire. It doesn’t matter who the artist is — this play is not about her. But, in this dream, instead of actually meeting the artist, I met someone who was dressed as her – an impersonator, an imposter. But, everyone treated her the same. No one seemed to notice that she wasn’t who she was supposed to be. I confronted her about this, and she explained to me, calmly, that rather than holding a stable identity, she is replaced by a new person every few years. That her self is a character, a role that is played by a new actor sometimes, like how long-running Broadway shows have new actors step in every once in a while. This dream happened a few years ago, and I think about it quite a bit. It reminds of this rare disorder called Capras Delusion, where people think that the people and things around them have been replaced by identical copies, by imposters. We apparently have this deep understanding that things have essences, permanence, that things deeply are what they are and are unchanging despite their appearances, but when a certain part of your brain is damaged, this goes away. In a way, I feel like I am the artist I met in the dream. That every few years or so a new person steps in and re-learns my childhood memories, my secrets, my fears – just like an actor learns a new role in a play. They enter my body and usurp my consciousness – and do this in a pretty subtle way, perhaps over the course of a few weeks, so as to make the change unnoticeable. You only really begin to notice when you start surprising yourself, doing things that are out of character that make you think, whoa, who is the person inside of me doing these things? I feel like a different person stepped in maybe a few years ago, around the time I had that dream, and that I’m probably due for a replacement soon. And that person who used to be myself is someone else right now, or looking for someone else to be – like a freelance actor looking for roles to play. Maybe I’ll run into them again, this person who once was me, and I’ll say, ah, yes, I see so much of myself in you, so much of what I was, of what I used to be, so much of what was so real but feels so irrelevant now, like a song that you used to love but doesn’t affect you anymore.

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

don’t read this post, sorry, i shouldn’t have written it

I once know this artist. And I’m not exaggerating about this — I loathe hyperbole more than anything in the world — he was truly the best artist alive. He would write songs. Musical theatre songs. He would write songs that would speak to you so deeply, you felt like they were helping you figure out parts of yourself you never could, showing you truths about the universe that had previously been hidden.

But, this man would never share his songs with the world. And that was a good thing. Because his songs were cursed. You see, these songs would get stuck in your head and repeat in a loop that would spin and spin and never stop, and like a tapeworm, they would consume your thoughts and show you things you don’t want to see. These songs would show you the world as it truly is, and there’s an unbearable melancholy that comes with seeing the world as it truly is — it’s like staring at the sun. 

A small group of people have heard the work of this artist, but we’ve decided not to share it. Because we don’t want to spread the curse. So, instead, people go around and listen to mediocre musicals like Hamilton and pretend that’s the best art that we have.

Maybe I’ll just hum one of the songs for you. Or I can just speak the lyrics without the melody. No, I shouldn’t, sorry, let’s talk about something different and pretend I didn’t bring this up.

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

multivitamin

i’ve traveled the world and realized i don’t like it much maybe it isn’t for me or maybe i’m just tired I should take a multivitamin and go to sleep but first a question do you ever feel like maybe someone is listening always even if you’re not speaking like your thoughts have a gentle supportive audience today i walked down the street and looked at the menus of restaurants  

and saw four restaurants in a row with the same menus my face itches and i forgot how to ride my bike they say you never forget but i never had the best memory i remember when i was young i once pushed through reality like a flimsy sheet of paper i don’t like to talk about this much it burnt my hand and eyes i don’t want to see unreality again then i forgot how to exist shame, really but still i wonder if anything’s led to anything if there’s anything to worship or if there’s a difference between shallow and deep thought and what they’re thinking the people who are listening not that it matters

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

there are no ghosts in england

i wish i was still afraid of ghosts but there are no ghosts in england I met a celebrity, once she was — nice i don’t remember most of the books i read but i remember the feelings i love artists, but they can be hard to deal with and, she was, a bit, well — no, she was nice your face is — nice and your eyes — it’s like — they’re almost not a part of your body not a part of this world i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not it’s just an observation do you believe in ghosts? things that are not a part of this world? as if this world isn’t enough sometimes when i write i believe in ghosts that they’re speaking through me, or something like that, like I’m a ouija board maybe that’s why i write less here, because there are no ghosts in England or maybe i am a ghost, does a ghost know they’re a ghost? can a ghost feel cold? and why is there the need for something different, is it because we only accept mysteries and hate the known or do we hate our bodies and love the body-less is it because things matter less without them do we think they know the truth, or are we bored freud thought that spirituality was just repressed sexuality isn’t that funny? do you think the celebrity also felt a bit like a ghost or maybe like a hero, an angel or maybe like a body do you think she felt cold? there was this painting of a tree and i used to see faces in the tree i still see faces in that painting but i don’t see faces in other things anymore as soon as i speak a truth it becomes false and the opposite becomes true which can make things difficult — am i making any sense? it makes me want to say things less did things get colder? or is that just me?

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

My acceptance speech

Thank you for this award. This award is really, really special to me. Ever since I was a child, I dreamed of this day. I dreamed of being something big. I used to watch this award show on TV and think, ah yes, one day I won’t just be small and behind this TV, I’ll be big and inside this TV. And that dream is what kept me going. The dream that I would be someday be up here, giving this speech, as I am now. The proud look I would imagine on my parents faces. And the look of rage I would imagine on the faces of my competitors. And the fear that I’d never see those proud faces, and those angry, contorted, rageful faces.

I used to constantly dream about this day. Because dreaming about this day made my think about death less. Sometimes, I get these intrusive thoughts where I wonder — what would it feel like to die in a plane crash? Would it be unimaginable terror? Would it be surprisingly spiritual? Or unexpectedly banal, an acceptance, a realization that — oh, this is what it feels like to die, this doesn’t feel any different than before? But, when I think about this award, I have less of those thoughts, which feels — good — I feel good right now.

I’m deeply humbled, and grateful, truly. I’ve never felt more humble than in this moment, which is strange — shouldn’t an award make you feel the opposite of humble? Or am I missing something? I miss a lot of things. I feel like a lot goes over my head, but at the same time, a lot enters my head that goes over other heads. I feel like I see the world very differently from most people, but then again, most people seem to see the world differently from most people. It’s unfortunate really. But, there are some things we can all relate to, some things we have in common — like awards. We can all agree that winning an award feels special. Not that everyone will get to feel special from winning an award, because not everyone wins them, but that is what makes them special, right? I have some people I’d like to thank. My family, of course. And some other people without whom I could not have accomplished this feat. But, I forgot their names. And I’d like to thank my fans. I feel like I have a special bond with my fans, like a deep personal relationship — I can feel them looking at me through the TV, and as I look back at them I feel — well, I don’t know what I feel, I sometimes don’t know if I feel anything, or if I’m just saying that I do.

Perhaps most importantly, I’d also like to thank my enemies, my nemeses, all the people who told me: you could never win an award, Steve! How dare you even think that you’re the kind of person who could ever be an award winner! I hope you naysayers are sitting behind your TV screens and feeling pure shame, because you deserve to feel sad and pathetic and small and award-less.

And to all you young, aspiring award-winners out there, I hope this speech serves as a reminder that, if you work hard and dream big, you too can win an award, and, conversely, if you did not win an award, you did not work hard enough or dream big enough, as I did. Some say that no one likes a winner. But, do I really want to be liked? Is that why I wanted this award? Surely this means something more than that. And does anyone really like a loser more than a winner?

It’s funny, I feel like I have more to say, but all I can think about are these recurring dreams I’ve been having about plane crashes. In these dreams, sometimes I’m in the plane. Sometimes, someone I know is in the plane, and I watch it fall from the sky. Sometimes, I just see the remains of the crash on the ground. I always think about what my last thoughts will be before the plane hits the ground. Or whether I’d stress myself out by trying to come up with the ideal last thought, only to realize that my last thought is what should my last thought be? Or whether death is special, categorically different, or just feels the same as everything else. Whether I’d feel a sense of finality about it, or whether it would just be another moment.

Oh, wait, I remember what I was going to say:  The day that you win an award is truly a special day. And you can’t say that about a lot of days. Some days I go for long walks. Some days I read books. Some days I talk to lots of people. Some days I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Some days I have a lot of work to do.  Some days I don’t do any work at all.  Some days I just feel far away. But, not from anything in particularly. Some days I have a lot of energy.  Some days I have no energy.  Some days just pass by, without me remembering any of the things that happened in those days.  Those days aren’t important, though.  But, the day you win an award is.  (He starts to cry.)  The day that you win an award won’t just “pass by.” Because that day is the day that all of those days were leading up to.  It may not feel like that for you, today.  Because today is probably just one of your regular days. But, when you win an award.  You’ll understand this feeling. You’ll know.  Trust me.  (Through streams of tears.)  I can hear music playing, so I guess I should leave, now.  Before I go, I’d like to say one thing.  When I die, I would like to be buried with this award.  So future archeologists can dig me up and say Hey  Look This man was an award-winner. 

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

It’s the waves

I tried writing about him to make sense of my feelings. But, in every story I wrote about him, he was the villain. Imagine a monster who is able to shape-shift into whatever you wanted to see – into a projection of your desires, your ideal human. He said he was able to adapt his personality to become what people wanted to see in him. That I wouldn’t be able to recognize him around other people. He was worried that was a bad thing. That he was fake, or somehow a bad person. I told him – when I looked into his eyes – all I could see was good. Though, I’m not sure if I could see anything. His eyes were dark and murky, and I could faintly see my reflection in them. He made me a playlist. I listened to nothing else but that playlist the entire week. I wondered if I listened to it enough I would know what the inside of his brain felt like. I didn’t understand him, but I wanted to figure him out. I’m deeply attracted to mystery. He said when I did finally figure him out I would get bored. Even though he’s had a tragic life, he never cries. He’s told few people about his past, and he said I was the only one he’s told since he got here. There’s nothing like a secret to draw you in. I’ve heard that psychopaths tell you secrets to try to gain your trust. He was about to kiss me and I told him he couldn’t. I told him I needed to have a conversation with someone first. So, we stayed frozen in that anticipatory about-to-kiss moment – him looking at me looking at him looking at me. He told me he thought I was being a good person, though I’m not sure if I was. We talked about morality, the kiss as a symbolic gesture, and how the Jewish religion says that only actions – not thoughts – can be sinful. He said none of this situation was my fault. But, I said maybe it was. Maybe I’m drawn to conflict because it gives me something to write about. It’s the waves that create the stories, not the still waters. It’s the tides that move back and forth, not the shores. Which is maybe why I chase the waves. Why I throw rocks, just to make a ripple. I had the conversation the next day – with person B. It hurt to be embodying the position of people who had hurt me in the past. I thought it would hurt more to be losing the closest connection I had since I got here, but loneliness can be a delicious emotion. He cried, and I felt bad for not crying too. I slid an apology note and a chocolate bar under his door the next day. Then I told him he could finally kiss me. For all the build-up to the moment, I didn’t expect his kiss to be so – dry. I didn’t expect him to look so different up-close, or to smell the way he did.   You know when you go through a period when you are incredibly moved by music, but then music suddenly stops mattering to you, so you start listening to podcasts and audiobooks instead? I told him about this study I read that said people who interpret sentences like “the rock lives a long time” as literally true (this is called an “ontological confusion”) are more likely to be spiritual and engage in magical thinking. But, that’s not a confusion, he said, that’s just another definition of truth. You get it, I said, am I ontologically confused because I think metaphors are real and the world feels alive? He asked me what attraction feels like to me. Inadequacy, I said. Comparison. A state of hyper-awareness, of hyper-embodiedness. People say that beauty often leads to the desire to replicate, which is why we take photos of the things we find beautiful. I think beauty leads to the desire to become, or the realization of what you won’t ever be able to become. And because inadequacy and attraction so often co-exist, I said, sometimes we confuse feelings of inadequacy for something like desire. Is attraction without inadequacy love? he asked. That is a sad definition of love, I said. And to clarify, you do not make me feel inadequate. So, you’re in love with me? he asked. When I went over to his place, I realized I had lost something – a small, silver lucky turtle charm that I carried in my left pocket everywhere I went since I was thirteen. I felt like I had lost the part of me that stays constant when everything else changes. Maybe I was just ontologically confused to think it mattered so much, but the sheer weight of my thoughts about it made it matter, whether or not it actually did. Though maybe I needed to lose something to move forward, maybe I needed to stop repeating old, worn-in thought patterns or trying to become what I was before so that I could become whatever I was becoming. I wasn’t sure if I liked what I was becoming, but I also wasn’t sure if I would be able to stop becoming it. Reality always continues to move forward as it does. Maybe he wasn’t the villain. Maybe he was someone – less interesting. But, maybe I needed a villain, and maybe he was becoming what I wanted to see.

[thishasallhappenedbefore]

THE WHITE HORSE

I had a dream where I saw a dead white horse. A man was leaning over it, crying, mourning him. A little bit later, I was inside of a house. I was looking out the window at a grassy field. And then I saw this white horse again — but he was alive — resurrected, or a ghost or something. The horse came up to the window and looked at me with its deep, black eyes. It was trying to get my attention. Then, it starting flying. It flew upwards, into the heavens, into a collection of rainbows in the sky. I starting crying — weeping, loudly. Then, I woke up inside a dream within a dream, crying loudly at the beauty of the horse. Then, I woke up for real. This dream gave me the distinct sense I had confronted something — archetypical, jungian, religious. And when I truly woke up, I was crying — I’m not a religious person, but every once in a while, I have these brief transcendent moments that make life seem deeply meaningful for just a moment before rapidly fading. Shortly after this dream, a friend told me that she dreamed that I was a fortune teller, and after telling her that she needed to let go of some things in her life to move forward, I flew away on a white horse. Weird, I thought. Another flying white horse. I thought — what part of me has died, what part needs to be reborn? Around that time, I kept coming back to a specific memory from my childhood. For some reason, I would always think about this memory whenever I listened to a nostalgia-inducing song. I was around 10, and I was looking out of my window and at the sunset. And I remember feeling so — stuck, so behind a window — and thinking — I don’t want to be here, I want to be there — inside the sunset. When I was that age, I had this delusional confidence, this absolute assuredness that one day I would be famous — due in part to being a child actor, and also due to parents who constantly told me “you can do anything you set your mind to” — and still say that, today. To me, the present was a mere chapter I’d write in my memoir, and the future was endlessly glorious — in the future I would fly into the sunset, effortlessly, on a white horse. Yet, it was painful to be behind that window, waiting, and not in that sunset. But, the sunset doesn’t look like anything from the inside — when you’re flying in an airplane, and you fly into a cloud, everything turns white, and you can’t tell how beautiful the cloud looks from the inside. I recently called the bank to re-set my PIN, but apparently I failed the security questions and got locked out of my account. The security questions were — what is your birthday, and what is your mother’s maiden name? I still don’t know what happened, whether I misheard or they misspoke. But there was something very destabilizing about being told that the most obvious facts of my existence were false.

I sometimes listen to songs that I listened to growing up to assure myself that I’m the same person I was then. Sometimes I just do things to see what will happen. Sometimes I try to surprise myself. Sometimes I try to remember how I used to think. Sometimes I try to remember what I was so passionate about. Sometimes I try to just occupy my time. Sometimes I try to just sit in my feelings. Sometimes I stand in the rain and try to become the rain. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a bird. Sometimes I enter a room and forgot why I came in. Sometimes I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I want to throw up, or cry, or run — but not all three. And sometimes I stay very, very still. Sometimes I feel very unbalanced, and sometimes I feel very calm. Sometimes I wish it was easier. Sometimes I miss things, people. But, not all the time. Just sometimes.