diasporadic

Moving things takes a while: triage, load, mentally arrange into new time and new space–like Tetris, but with gravity–rinse, repeat. All the while, anger fuels a straight back, despite the monotony of it all, coupled with the self-persecution. Pretend that your belongings can weigh you down, keep you tethered to those whom you shared them with. A futile exercise, really, but what is the passage of time but something to eventually bow down to, while committing to memory those few moments that shone through the blackness.

Not, of course, this one. Not the blackest, but certainly the loudest in a long while. Coming home to a changed house has that tendency to bring out the worst in me, it seems, and midnight did not stop this one from happening. No catharsis, unfortunately, and no one was vindicated in any way, not even after others stepped in with their sage advice, a ruling of declaration of persona non grata for accepting a bribe for silence without even knowing that such was the consideration.

I talked about proximate cause in class, the day before effect came; what were words, apparently, had coalesced into action, declaration: “You do not belong here anymore.”

“I don’t think I ever did,” I said in reply, but backs were already turned, memories turned into haze through which everyone adopted a happy tabula rasa. Nothing happened, we do not remember that anything happened, so hi there, what seems to be the problem?

Walk away. Just walk away. And don’t you dare look back.

So ordered.

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when it hits, it hits hard

When it hits, it hits hard. It’s never one-at-a-time, because no one has time for that. Rather, more an avalanche of realizations and conclusions, all intricately linked to each other: That you were petty for doing that but no one understood that that was of some significance to your value-system then again no one is on your side anyway come to think of it none of these people are your friends to begin with actually you might probably not have any friends at all if we are talking about friends as people to whom you can reveal your darkness to because all the world is concerned about nowadays is all these external manifestations of a happiness that likely is not there anyway and we have to banish sadness with a flicka da wrist and a stupid stupid stupid fucking stupid little motivational piece of shit go away sadness hurray hurrah happy whee so how long has all this been reduced into something so rote and so mechanical to the point that nothing calms your mind and you are just exhausted all the time and you want to ditch work and school and everything else but no one cares anyway so why not just kill yourself or something since there is no point to anything anyway just like an extension of ye olde teenage angst but persistent into even past four score and ten

everyone’s in awe isle

Those who claim that everyone needs to “disconnect/unplug/disengage” every once in a while necessarily imply that there is something to sever, a cable in danger of burning out in one end (maybe even both?), that recharging requires solitude.

To be fair, it’s not as if those already “disconnected” have ever felt the need to clamor towards “connection” anyway, seeing as this illusion of “interconnected-ness”–in the communal word-vomit of a shared space, in ats and pounds linking everyone as if the world was somehow bound by some pervasively common ideas that transcend space, time, even thought–has hoodwinked everyone since some score years ago.