so what I soon discover is all anybody’s really interested in is how miserable you are and how much you’re suffering and what color the sky looks like when you’re lying on the ground next to the toilet staring up at the sky (taupe wallpaper, yellowing at the creases from the mildew) or how you hold your tears inside you close to the fragile bits of the body: collar bones, rib cages are acceptable, big thighs and thick arms and chins are not. nobody wants to hear about how happy you are. nobody wants to hear you say, hey I’m actually doing pretty good. went to the beach, went to the bar with some friends, we had a few laughs, ha ha ha. shut the hell up you moron, we didn’t pay to hear your successes in life rubbed in our noses like pollen smeared across the windshield. what they want is that feeling you get when you’ve lost aginagainagain, when you sit in the car and stare at all the people around you on their phones or eating or staring dumbly out the window and think what is this world coming to? does anybody make any real connections anymore? and those terrifying dreams you have of running from hands trying to squeeze your neck until bruises come up around the lobes of your ears, like the red speckles berries leave on your fingers and hands and stain even after soap. what they want is for you to break a slab off of the unforgiving cement of grief and lay it thick on your shoulders and stumble around until you fall on someone and hope they can catch it (forewarning: they don’t). maybe it makes us feel good about ourselves to read about other people’s sadness. try it on ourselves, feel wise yet virginal in our martyrdom. i’m rich with emotional depth. i, too, feel sadness, look how unhappy I am! well, I am a diehard patron of this game, but on the other hand, here’s a few things to consider:
big juicy sunrises. the sound of a trumpet. hopscotch scribbled in sidewalk chalk. the smell of clean sheets out of the dryer. the sap of chamomile.
just take those out and hold them in your pocket for a minute.