Closer to Something (Automatic)

At night,
sometimes I lie in bed and think in my head
of what I would write.

I had a strange dream last night. In it, characters I had come to know were revealed to be unreal apparitions. Vivid specimens with a categorical name like humerus apparitious. One moment, they were there—the next, they vanished. A step beyond death—they were revealed to have never existed. It seemed perfectly real in my dream and I experienced that phantom limb syndrome. “I’ve got to tell Mo about this. Oh wait, Mo never actually existed.” Whole people erased. Like memories.

It’s weird living in another country. I often lament doing it. As if, forever, part of me lives elsewhere. I often feel homeless. Home exists neither here, nor there. Even if I returned to my hometown, I would not be home. For I’ve become something unrecognizable. Much like my home. I’ve changed in the air. Neither here nor there.

My mother said I was always one to follow suit. That I’d put someone or something on a pedestal, and metamorphose into it, eventually believing it were me and failing to see the difference (well, she didn’t say in so many words, but—). Mimicry—a tool in my intrinsic pocket. My childhood best friend said I seem to go along with things, without planning… that I lament my arrival after having taken so many yielding steps. Would you call me a drifter?

I expect nothing from you. In fact, I’m surprised every time you speak to me (She wore a self-deprecating hat). You are very much a dream. A schizophrenic vessel in my mind. A pen friend I have always imagined. Why you? (A shiver just ran through me) It is not time to answer this question.

I worry our relationship is one-sided. I worry. Do I overestimate the value of my prickling honestly, of which you are the exclusive recipient? If I cannot get past this, then how will I ever relay meaningful and worthy words?

You must think I’m so selfish (Even in thinking that you think I am selfish, I am selfish, no?). I’ve never said a word about missing your birthday. This hangs like a cloud. What you must think…

Oh Low, I couldn’t come. I actually couldn’t come (Maybe you don’t care and explanation is insignificant). I’d arranged to come with Jerome and Katie. Arranged a lift and purchased a train ticket (with borrowed funds). I’d been unemployed already for three months by then. I was penniless and my flatmate had moved out. The rent (due first of the month) was due in a few days and I was hard-pressed to find a flatmate. Word of mouth (even Gumtree) did not suffice. I had already interviewed 13 candidates (like a conveyor belt) without luck. It would have been inexcusably irresponsible to attend. I was already so fragile. Financial pressure rendered me breathless. Compounded with social anxiety. By this time, I’d accepted that I was in no position to be doing drugs—that drugs are for the secure [You must remember at the Manor when I cried and cried, hysterically, in a K-hole; it was the end of the world and it was hopeless, and Adam used meditation tactics to bring me back; this was the summer before; I learnt after that summer not to do it when I was already down; for there were no place to go, but further down; that same summer, I attended my first and only festival to date—here, there is a longer story best saved, but—you will remember, how I borrowed money to attend—so much wanted to attend—promptly lost everything upon jumping the fence—Jerome and I unceremoniously “made redundant” that same week—lost all of my money and belongings; and my wits—and came to you under a tree and shared a poem… and this was the moment—you saw me for the first time… that was the best moment—to date, the most vivid memory I (have elected to) retain from the entire festival… I was in a state. You almost didn’t see me. Anyway, after all that (and then some), I learned that I should not go there when I was down (despite, yes, the wondrous instances—to be recounted at a later date)]—and I did not want to return there, penniless and forlorn, a beggar at the feast, subject to charity and exclusion and failure, with nothing to contribute but a song. And so, at the ultimate moment, I retreated and told myself it was for the best. That you would hardly notice. But you did. And I always intended to make it right, but time passed (as it does)…

It is difficult to feel a constant disappointment (as I do). To everyone, including myself.
To family—
To friends—
To lovers—
To collaborators—
To pets—
To me—
To you—
If only I could shake this feeling.

Now, Lucky is restless because I am.
Sometimes I lie in bed and my whole body tingles with words. Usually I suppress them, but tonight I am moved.
There is not time for silence, nor edits. I am realising that words unwritten will disappear. Something (in me) tells me it is imperative—to reserve judgment and just write.