"People Are Strange That's Why We're Strangers"

I have mentally regressed in age. I don't know what happened. Have I always been this sentimental? Where's my brick wall, I don't want to be made of glass. I don't want to be made of glass. It's funny what happens to a person once they've completely assimilated themselves into loneliness. It becomes more than a lifestyle, or a state of mind, or an emotion. I don't know how I let it get this far. I know how you see me. I know you think you know things about me that I don't know about myself, that you have x-ray vision. I hope to God you do. Because that's the only hope I have of getting out of this mess I've made.

It's kind of funny...but I get lonely too sometimes.

To Remember

I predicted that they would be able to read in between the lines, that I had enabled them somehow to do so. That's what I selfishly expected of them. Yet, in the meantime, I had been living with the people I created. Ostensibly I waited impatiently in solitude, yet I was leaning on the shoulders of my imaginary spectrum of personalities. I will admit I have built so many walls over the past few years, but if one were to look closely enough they would see that the walls themselves were made of transparent and malleable material, like plastic. Taking into account the actions of those around me, whom I do not believe have blind eyes, I must conclude that this facade has become a perverse reality. Against my better judgement, I feed and nourish this malicious demon and its basket of fallacies. I stand back and taste salt on my cheeks as I watch it grow and envelope each facet of my being with its shadow. How can I stand in full view of this horror? I call myself a martyr, yet cannot identify the cause to which I have bound myself to. It is well known that loneliness will drive any man or woman mad, but it seems so candid. It seems too conscious of a decent to make the trek without an anesthetic. I am wrought with a dissociative sadness that inundates itself into to every new cell that groans it's way into my pores. I drive long distances and think this through, philosophical skepticism paired with ordinary skepticism ,and no conclusion is derived. I park in the garage, get out of the car, and think "fuck, I'm alone".

I live with the people I create and it has always made my essential loneliness less keen.
Carson McCullers

copyright Yasamin Aftahi 2011

Glow In The Dark Stars

Ostensibly, I get along better than most. I have my own world, and I fill it to the brim with the things I love. I wake up in the morning and know exactly what I want (a cup of coffee), and I go about my day with open arms. But the reality I see through my eyes feels extremely different. Hollow, empty, full, voluminous....It isn't fair to want so many contradictory things. There's nothing worse than loving to be out of control. Holding up your biggest and most dangerous flaws above the crowd, for show, leave the telling to the metaphors you hand out like paper money. You call yourself a poet because you believe in things while no one believes in you. You call yourself a poet because you write from your own perspective. You call yourself a poet because you make believe you suffer. You call yourself a poet because you play tricks on your own two eyes, and pretend that optical illusions are just a result of blind faith. You call yourself a poet because you can listen to the same song twenty times in a row and still feel tears welling up in your throat. But you're just a scared little girl who was born with an old heart. You're lost, and you love it, but you still continue to shoot up flares into the night sky just to see what will happen. You believe everything happens for a reason, and that everyone is put into your life to play the part of teacher, student, or both. The fear lives on, and the fear lives inside of everything you do. In order to understand the fear, you must become the fear. You must inundate every aspect of who you are and who you want to be with this shadow, and then maybe the light will come. And if the light should come, you ought not tie it on a string around your neck like a key, but shake hands, say hello, and watch it walk away with a straight back and unshaken disposition. A friendly encounter, a fleeting encounter, and a wound to prove it's worth.

Quixotic : foolishly impractical especially in the pursuit of ideals; especially : marked by rash lofty romantic ideas or extravagantly chivalrous action


copyright Yasamin Aftahi 2011