“I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often.”
“I hate you. I hate how you make me feel.
I hate how when you speak to me I love you.
I hate how when you don’t speak to me
I still love you.
I hate that I love you.
And I hate how cliché my emotions feel,
how I still cling to the idea that love is pain, and pain is love, and love has meaning,
and if the pain has meaning then it’s supposed to be worth it.
How? Is it?
I listen to songs that make me cry on purpose. I read poetry that makes me sob. Shouldn’t I love a boy that makes my heart break?
I haven’t eaten lunch in a while now.
At first I told myself I was saving money. When I kept spending the same amount on that overpriced venti sweetened iced Americano with cream,
I realized I just like how it feels to be hungry.
How it gnaws inside of me. How I can pinpoint the emptiness right to my stomach instead of feeling it everywhere.
How I get to control at least one thing I feel.
How starving myself of food makes me feel less starved of affection.”
– (The cafe chef asked me where I eat nowadays.) by~ SR
“We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog’s yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum’s scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother’s retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what’s brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.”
“There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call it jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.”