Stagnant

I am just not sure. 

Nothing is sacred, anymore. 

Art is not real.

Everything is scientific. 

I am too temporary. 

The ultimate tragedy,

The wistfulness of a crush on a pretty girl has been nullified.

You are not pretty to me, I am not pretty, we are human animals, and we are almost dead. 

You have human ears, monkey ears.

They are pierced and adorned with shining rocks, but they are still

monkey

ears.

My emotions cannot be beautiful. My life is not a movie, and no one is witnessing the intricate twists and turns that I have experienced.

Nobody is keeping track.

Being raised on movies and books lead me as a child to believe that my life was a story.

There is no story. Nobody is seeing it but me. If I had dementia, that story would be remembered by nobody. All my ideas, all my dreams, all my thoughts, all my feelings, all the imagery and sound to ever be created by my brain, would be 

nihil.

Our planet is so, so small. 

Space is so, so big. 

There’s gotta be some other consciousness, right?

What about some other thing, besides consciousness, that we don’t understand?

Maybe that thing is even here on earth, driving evolution forward. Causing big bangs. 

I understand I must broaden my thinking. I am just intimidated and anxious. I want to be a scientist. I do not want to be an artist anymore, suddenly.

But I do want a friend. I want nothing more.

An aid to my damaged and glitchy brain. 

If I had a friend who was similar to myself, I believe we could do anything. 

If I had a friend, I would love them and love them and love them like a child.

If I had a friend, I would cry when they entered the room.

If I had a friend, I would clasp their hand into mine and pat their back.

I would encourage. 

I yearn to be We.