April

the tumbling thoughts from last month

Sometime in April; Somewhere in Williamsburg

I just ran away from a birthday party. Sorry [redacted] and [redacted]. Sometimes, I push the limits of what I can give. Ideally, I can give everyone every grain of me. But I have been burned to the bottom of my wick trying. I was standing in a space where everyone knows each other, and if I know everyone, then I should hypothetically know all of these blurred scary faces too. But it feels like every pair of eyes is looming over you, trying to figure out who you are. And you can’t give them an answer, because you can’t answer it yourself, that inescapable feeling of being unknowable, so you run.

I fled. I felt so silly and immature that I couldn’t handle a simple social situation. Yet I think that feeling of fleeing has ingrained itself into me. It’s agitating and pervasive. I feel my heavy, pounding thoughts toiling around inside me. So deep, they have found my stomach. Building up and breaking me down. No one seems to quite understand what it means. Trying to swallow, but my tongue is too dry. Trying to stop thinking, it's like drowning. I fear I’ll be like this forever. Won’t stop picking my fingers until I make them bleed. I’ll buy rings to have something else to toy with. But I will feel bad about wearing them, so I let them sit in my tray until they gather dust and I pick at my skin so deep I reach my bones. And then feel sorry for myself for being this way. That’s a long way from now. Maybe I’ll correct my course by then. Or maybe all I do best is spiral.

It’s April, but it has been far too hot. The flowers bloom and then wither. Somehow, each day is getting shorter even though it drags on much longer than before. And I have been trying to catch up, slow down, and breathe in this musky air. It doesn’t please me, I think I will reach a point where nothing ever will. I’m trying to do my assignments and projects, I swear I am. Trying to find a sense of something in the photos I take and the things I write in my messy scribbles. To find this iridescent glow in the meaningless work I create. I don’t know when I will reach it. It will keep me dangling and reaching for mercy.

I got this new kick where I’m looking for answers in the spaces that don’t mean anything. The light pauses, the glances away, the faux intimacy, the shaky hands. Tell me what you really mean. I have been used to the taste of my own blood. Let me remember what air feels like. Show me something that isn’t in the mirror I look down at every night. That isn’t pity that occurs as my spine folds. That isn’t how I wind up and crash down. That isn’t every piling thought that passes through my dreams that haunts me from that day. Nothing good belongs to me.

I’ve been to too many celebrations this month, signifying how much older we are getting. I felt like I hadn't aged since 16, but every day I wish I were twice my age and a little taller. That I could wake up and my life would be together. A good job and a decent living place. Skip all the stages in between. I should be afraid of the future, but I’m just too numb for that. My body can only handle things that are a few hours ahead and some days behind. I think I’m spinning perpetually. Maybe everyone else is too, I just haven’t noticed it yet.

I find a sense of peace on my walks home from my long hours of studying or developing photos with my chemical stained nail beds. I never feel satisfied by the work I just completed, but the warm spring air has this way of wiping my mind and letting me just be. Just be mindless, with my feet leading me on the course back to my bed. Something about midnight brings all of the lovers out of their doors to meander, with their limerence-sore eyes down the sidewalks. I’m not jealous, no. I can’t feel that. There’s an emptiness in that place in my heart that leaves me apathetic. Not heartbreak, no just a displacement. I can’t desire what I have never learned. Or maybe that’s the pessimist talking on my behalf.

Now with April tying her threads and sending herself down the valley until next year, I have hope for May. I’m praying that she’s kind; that I’ll be fine. Even though the times of me waiting patiently for a sense of serenity has spanned from days to years. My arms are tired of hanging. Fingers gripping with no calluses to firm my belief that something more beautiful and peaceful is waiting for me.

I need to go to the doctor’s, the dentist, so many places. I got a headache, some stained teeth, and a sunburn that will last for an eternity or two. Until then, I’ll be still and sleeping, but always never too relaxed.

Sincerely,

Brooklyn