The cartilage in my mandible

Isn’t it so exciting to just talk? I don’t much these days but run my mouth and cry about it later in the dark. In my heart there is so much space for more but as soon as someone gets in blood flushes the room and floods them out. Yet I still think that talking is so much better than any physical euphoria I have ever felt. Better and bigger than any mindless touch I’ve felt over the years that I have been alive. Talking gives me flutters up my spine, makes my heart explode and splatter all over my ribs, makes my brain skitter around in my skull and my nerves throb beneath my skin. I think maybe all I have ever had to do is find someone to listen and invest in the words that come out of my mouth. Someone who won’t tire of my jokes and symbolism. I have yet to find someone like that, because for me, they just don’t exist. I just find a collection of people that I keep in my pocket and I pull one out for each and every single interest that I obtain over my life. 

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a lonely existence to only ever talk and wear out the cartilage in my mandible like truck tires, but at least i’m saying something that matters, I think. And while I don’t always articulate the best, with “ums” and “uhs” and “likes” paying the most rent in my sentences and ideas, I don’t care anymore- you see, my words might not mean anything to anyone, it might not even reflect brightly on the faces of my peers and it might not garner the warmth of validation from the great many teachers and the elders of my life but I’d like to think that at least on some bizzaro surface level, my words can at least fall on some ears. It’s one thing if someone actually invests in my blithering words, but it’s a completely other, separate, more profound experience for someone to PRETEND to listen to you. Though my words are falling onto, and bouncing from their superior high horse brains, at least they're expending some energy, giving me the decency and time of going through the motions of acting like what I’m saying matters. And for some reason, I like it. Maybe because for my whole life it’s been rather inevitable for me. Because it’s not like anything I have said hasn’t been said before, and I have yet to experience something that someone has never experienced- you see, I’m only growing  more and more sentient as the moons pass me by and I can’t help but feel like I’m becoming even more and more restless as the suns rotate and revolve around the earth that I stand on. 

And I think there’s this U2 song, I can’t remember the title, but Bono says “It’s hard to listen, while you preach” and that line makes me choke up everytime and I have no real idea as to why. I’m hardly ever preachy, at least I hope I am not. I just don’t know how else to relate to anyone but through myself and my own experiences. I don’t know how to tell you what to do unless I put myself in your shoes and try and do it myself. I’m self sufficient like that, you know. Anything I want to do, I have a youtube video for. And I hate asking for help, because my self loathing runs so deep, kind actions are never received as someone’s mindless altruism, or even benevolence,  but as charity, pity, and me having to go out of my way to  repay them because I hate being indebted to someone, over anything, and no matter how much they insist.

And because I have to keep this going. This ongoing streak I have of never having learned anything from my mother- I learned empathy myself, I learned how to change a tire and I’m pretty sure I can speak conversational Japanese. She never even taught me how to change my sheets or blow dry my hair or shave my legs. She taught me all about self preservation, though. And that was only because she never provided me with anything. It’s what she never taught me, that taught me so well. I’m not being cocky, I’m not a man in that aspect I suppose. I don’t possess any other earthly confidence that deludes me into thinking that I won’t fail at anything I try. It's quite the opposite, actually,  but it’s because I’m a woman, and I don’t have any other choice. And because if I’m anything like jo march, then I’m never going to marry, so I have to learn how to hang up a picture, how to use a level and how to read an Ikea instruction manual in Portuguese in case I spill water on the half that has English on it (and the conversational Japanese)

So hey, maybe I just like the sound of my own voice, maybe I’m using big words to hide behind like the shelter I never once had, or like the tree I never go to sit under and soundfully sleep. But either way, I can’t shut up, I can’t ever shut up. Not now, and I think not ever. I might just be a fool who talks about the same three things everyday that I’m awake, but I’ll never tire of it, whether I find someone to listen to me or to just day dream to the sound of my voice. Nothing will ever change- the moon will be just as round, the sun just as hot, mothers just as much a toss up, but that’s just their nature, I think. I like to joke and say that if god had landed heads instead of tails, I might have gotten a kinder mommy. But that’s just the way my cookie crumbled, I guess. Talking about it won’t put it back together, and no matter how hard I talk it into doing it, Some things just can’t listen to you. At least, not in the way you want them to, so just be glad they’re there, if nothing else.