[Now that I've lost your attention...]
Why do I clench my jaw? Why do I grind my teeth?
I've been walking around every day thinking of that impact we're having. Wandering around the face of the earth - creating, destroying, laughing, crying, fucking, dying - what is it going to leave? I stress for reasons completely aside from this, though I know that in my back of my mind, or in some dark subconscious corner, it's always about making the most of it, about the end result. What will it mean, and to who?
As I wander around contemplating this, I come up with scenes from future eras. They'll find our tv sets, our concrete, our buildings - proof of a vast civilization, how remarkable!—marvels of the Cenozoic Era. They won't worry about the destruction. They'll recognize things they know. They'll find the foundation - but what is the foundation? It is more base than we'll give credit for.
The foundation they'll find when they start piecing me together will be my glasses. I will be remembered for falling asleep in class. Philip Glass could tell you this. I'll be remembered for the shortcuts I tred each day on the way to the el. I'll be remembered for making out at a party or falling in the rain. I'll be remembered for my flask. All of my technical writing will be lost, but someone will discover the 300-page teen angst manuscript written by a 12-year-old who drew ying-yangs and smiley faces on the cover. They will also find my copy-editing notes. They'll find bite marks on my pillow. A picture of me as a pirate. Photographs of Audrey Hepburn and my father. Three pairs of ruby slippers. Buttons and the stash of stamps under my keyboard.
There will be a tape recording of my laugh.
Something is telling you that this is not true, and that I know it. Something is telling you that this is one more excerize for the demons, and who knows why you're reading it. I know what it is. And I won't get to sleep early tonight, and I'll still fall asleep in class. I'll still have a bowl of soup and tea for lunch. The "hang in there" kitty on the wall is keeping me going. I'm living 365 days of the year, and touching different things every day, saying yes instead of no. And I know that I'm leaving electrons on sleeves, and a trail of myself every place I go.
A butterfly flapping its wings, ready to create a storm.
I want so badly to believe that "there is truth, that love is real"
And I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd
I know you're wise beyond your years, but do you ever get the fear
That your perfect verse is just a lie you tell yourself to help you get by?
[This perfect verse is just a lie I tell myself to help me get by]