draft1jul22
There’s a normalcy in miscommunication, in wrong words and mixed gestures. There’s a normalcy in misunderstandings and unnecessary separations, in cut-off love and led on fallacies of mere desire. Lust and blood, interchangeable by seconds of uncarefully processed fury. The arousal and excitement that we’ve misattributed to vicariously learned monologues we’ve carried as baggage for decades. Internalized patterns of mismatched cables that keep bringing fire and burning down an entire system, leaving to its ruins the arduous job of reconstruction. Sticks and stones glued together to rebuild and relearn what we are conditioned from the beginning. Decades of pain and retrospection, of poking ourselves with masochism. Decades of sadist desires culminating in guilt and shame. There is, nonetheless, something comforting in the idea that this broken system has the ability to rebuild itself and relearn. Who promises that we’ll all be able to fit the pieces once they are scattered across your bedroom floor? Who assured us that we are all reparable and malleable to tragedies and unreadable scripts. It is a scary kind of comfort. It is what will distinguish you from others, while also forcing you single-handedly to be part of an in-group you never even fancied. Whose to say who will make it? Whose to say that once we do, we won’t need to be picking after ourselves? After that one piece in which glue just won’t seem to settle?
