Look. You’re okay. It’s just another rejection.
Look. You’re okay. You’re still typing, still banging off on a keyboard. It’s got to mean something, particularly because you wrote the word meaning and that means something, right?
You don’t know. But you’ve looked and you’re still here, wherever that is. You wish it were someplace else but it’s at least here and it could be somewhere else too, but it isn’t. Not all is bad. Not all is there, wherever that is.
Yet, you wonder. You can’t exactly feel anything, so this writing feels mechanical. It’s practice of putting one letter to another until wham-bam-kaplooie, we got something like this, which certainly isn’t all that much. It isn’t that. That’s for sure.
You don’t exactly feel numb. That would mean you could be aware of that emotional experience. Instead, you don’t have an absence of feeling or an outpour of it. You just have what is left when everything in the world has been written, and there’s a period afterwards.
You’re supposed to feel something, you’re sure, and you convince yourself that such knowledge may resemble some finagled vulnerability after all. It may be cold logic, but at least it’s cold and at least you can recognize the absence of heat.
But perhaps such rationalization isn’t all that’s supposed to occur when you’ve been quashed and squished and became a flat board. Look at the wrong angle, and you’d miss you.
What happened? It’s taken you this long to say as much, which is to say you haven’t said anything at all, which is to say you’ve said that much at least. Nothingness may indicate the lack of what I wish to say.
Or something like that. Nothing like that too, I guess.
Which you also guess is why you’re here – you were conceived as nothing at all by yet another institution. It’ll happen again, you’re sure, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that you’ve gotten so far in a post this long, and yet you can’t quantify how you feel. The point has become so dense that adding to it does nothing at all.
When will it explode?
If you were to guess what you were supposed to feel, though, you’d say mad, or something like it. It’s funny. Unfeeling and mad; you’re dead but roaring angry. You’re like a hung man who is wiggling his feet, dancing just above the ground to a tune only he can hear. Even then it might be a bit muffled. You notice he’s got an erection. The blood went from his head to his other head and he’s horny. Or maybe he’s just trying to save all the blood he can. Or maybe just he’s mad and he’ll pee himself in retaliation to whomever has to pick up his body afterwards. You can’t ask him exactly, though. He’s too busy dancing to hear you. His penis throbs for another life.
And in a way, you’re tap-tapping away too for someone or something else. You don’t have time to feel this, whatever it is and whatever it isn’t. What went wrong where you can’t allow yourself a few moments to cry and give a shit and have your heart put out in front of you, analyzed, only to find out that you have atherosclerosis or is it coronary plaque?
Who cares. You don’t. You’re too busy working and doing and there’s more to work and do and that’ll lead to more working and doing later too, you hope. If you work and do enough, certainly, there will be. Why else are you working and doing now?
You’re not sure and if this singular answer isn’t enough, then you’re not sure you want to hear any of the others. You already got rejected by some other organization. Getting rejected by yourself would only add another insult. A personal one, too.
Maybe you deserve it though. You hate you sometimes. Today is one of those days. Tomorrow may be too. You’re not sure and that makes you hate you more today.
Worse yet is that you can’t think of some happy ending to this melancholia. Worse yet is that you don’t think there is one, unless this could be called one because the piece has ended and at least it’ll be quiet for a while. Worse yet is that somehow it still isn’t all that quiet because people are talking and things are happening and someone asks me how I’m feeling and a question requires an answer, doesn’t it?