The truth is you already know what it’s like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.
But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think…The truth is you’ve already heard this. That this is what it’s like. That it’s what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? Of course you’re a fraud, of course what people see is never you. And of course you know this, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it’s only a part. Who wouldn’t? It’s called free will, Sherlock. But at the same time it’s why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali—it’s not English anymore, it’s not getting squeezed through any hole.
So cry all you want, I won’t tell anybody.
@7 months ago with 16 notes
@7 months ago with 8500 notes
My dream last night happened as well. I stood in a line waiting to get on a school bus, I noticed the man in the corduroy jacket in front of me. He had a blonde bowl cut but throughout the dream his hair got longer. A man tried to start a second line. The first man, the one in the corduroy jacket, didn’t let him cut and told him to get to the back of the line. Before I had the chance to tell him how heroic he was, he turned around, touched my hand, and said “but you can cut me.” This man was not very attractive, he touched my hand and told me I was beautiful. His coat was off. He was wearing a black shirt with a dragon on it. In my dream, I thought, Well this is good that in my dream someone told me I am beautiful. That means I think I am beautiful. He was going to be the next chef boyardee, he told me so. I pictured the can, recalled the fact that I was dreaming, blushed a bit and felt impressed. “What do you mean?” I could tell I would wake up soon. “I am training to be the next chef boyardee,” he said. He was cocky, he spoke to me like he already knew I would be impressed with his upcoming status of ‘chef boyardee’, I was. He thinks I am beautiful. No, I do. I am dreaming. I pictured the can again. I got that sudden anxiety I always get when I become more and more aware that I am dreaming. I have to find a way to wake myself up. I felt a leg brushing against my leg and I could see the bed I was laying in. Why is she laying next to me? I have got to wake myself up. I whisper my name until it breaks into a shout. In my bed, my lips open as I say my name; I have woken myself up. No one is lying next to me. I visualize a chef boyardee can as I take a sip of water from the bottle next to my bed. I’ve never eaten chef boyardee and I am too scared to go back to sleep and fuck this ego about beauty, she said.