Do you live for these times; is this all you live for? To descend down the metal spiral with bad shoes, all legs. To be labeled “the hottest girl at the party” by a freckled redhead and a blonde speckled with glitter. They chase you around with cameras, you hide behind couches and wood stoves, annoyed and ashamedly flattered. Bobbing around over balloons and against bodies to settle into a seat with a comprehensive view of the floor and the loud life pulsing over it. And to find the greatest delight in watching others do all the things you find no pleasure in doing yourself. And you worry that everything is something you can’t take pleasure in, the same way you worry about losing your expressive lucidity.
You still manage to talk, but not with your own words authentically arranged. Others still get you, but you become to yourself more and more elusive.
You find things to strive for; now, not with the intention of possessing them, but dwelling in the spaces where their attainment is guaranteed. It’s cruel of you–to work people up and carve yourself down to arrange it so that what you think is worth getting, you’ll get, but without having ever wanted any of it. You tell yourself this is your way of determining what you ought to want, because you remember that otherwise, there’s nothing you want. You can get all these things, you have come to find. You are perfectly capable, if not masterful, of getting the things on your list, if only these things you really wanted.
So it’s nice enough when M shows up at 3, right as you have given V up to the dance floor, watching him dance with tall pretty girl from your station. It’s nice enough then for M to show up and for you to decide you’ll just sleep in his room tonight. You pay no mind to V’s hand reaching for your arm and the crowded eyes behind you. They watch you walk out, or you think of yourself as someone they are watching walk out, and hope that by then all has been figured out by some of them, and that you are left forever mystified to some others.