When I looked at you with expecting eyes, it was the potential I was looking at. It must have been because the actual, an objective gaze would see, is more or less the same.
It’s my intentions that have been stunted.
I can blame a few things for why a world of wonder does at times turn its back on me, speaks to me with indignation, is reluctant to let itself be taken by me because it can’t know what I’ll do with it.
I am angry at all your taking, at your pretense and recalcitrance. And I want to blame the disgust you incite in me for why the world is getting uglier.
Shrunken and determined.
And how I feel closed in by all these things, and how you succeed to be all these things in trapping me this way, though surely you can’t want to be these things.
Crawling into yourself feels safe but only so in that designated walled-up space, making all that exists outside your boundaries into a volatile void, a mess of idiocy and deterration, a ridiculous going-about and doing-nothing.
So everyone is a bore: a hurl here, a sit-down there, and you can’t handle reducing yourself to it. You’ll chase the meaningful at the risk of losing any sense of belonging in the meaningless mass.
But the fool you are, you are affected by what you want nothing to do with: you want to rage and want them to face up to their chimeras–to swallow whole their contradictions.
Say, though: what do you know but your own reactions to what you haughtily disapprove of? You can’t know anything more than yourself in relation to this–what you abhor. Go be a curled-up ball or a participant in the most idiotic of dances, but stop wanting.