"Your new aethetic"

It's one of those days.

One of those long, lonely nights that I sit through and think about how I'm utterly sick of writing poems with happy closing couplets.

I'm sick of investing hope in things that break too easily.

Like... people.

The "I am what I am, take me or leave me" philosophy isn't worth the bullshit its written in. Because you never what someone thinks of you, really. You never know what's whispered behind your back between chuckles at your flaws. You can't tell if your participation in a group of people is real or some kind of running joke shared between the select elite. I can't in good conscience name a single person at this fucking college that I am certain likes me for the person I am. Not for the things I say or the words that spill from behind my teeth or quivering pen onto page. Not for some fragile link, a connection via some rediculous common interest. A single person that thinks for just a fleeting moment, "I thoroughly enjoy time spent with Mike. He is a genuinely good friend."

And it isn't limited to within this environment, however God-forsaken. Friends from home move ahead in life, advancing towards tangible, goal-based futures. Creating relationships based on something like all that is left of what was once called love. Forging friendships and sailing unblinking into tomorrows brightly lit by life led without me. Where am I? What am I doing here? What makes up my tomorrows?

I'm sick of doubting.

And I'm sick of the turnpike stench and knowing that there isn't a corner of the globe I can huddle in to escape it.

Every city, every state is an imperfect reflection of the last. The paradigms and dynamics fall into place in ways the deviate frighteningly little from the known. The people occupying schools or streets: blurred shadows cast in the setting sun creating outlines on the pavement. Constant, consistent outlines. At least that's how it feels when you can't help but believe that you are so totally alone in your life experience. In my life experience.

Where's the life? Where is the beauty in character or personality besides lost behind synthetic emotion? The horror in symmetry. These are just aethetics. I am not a fucking print. I am not a fucking copy of the Mona Lisa that the poster store sells a hundred thousand of for $8.99 plus shipping. I breathe and I hurt and I long for company. For companionship. For love?

But is that what you want? A manakin that you can pose and manipulate and reinvent? Is that all we are? All we do? Faces in a tool chest. Filling roles and performing tricks.

This is what I get for being honest. For trying to embrace a life of minimal delusion and falsery. And yeah, I've said some fucked up things. I've made some fucked up choices. I've hurt a lot of feelings and maybe broken some spirits. But my perception does not define you! I don't claim to be law any more than I claim to be God. These vibes that I get- this instinct I trust my social conduct to- it's so tragically imperfect. But when I'm right I succeed. And when I'm wrong I fail. Isn't that just so beautifully "so it goes"?

And I've made a lot of mistakes.

I've been wrong about people before. I'm detached and defended against someone while being raped raw by another. I've had my spirit broken too. I've fucked up in letting myself be vulnerable before, and I keep doing it. Not for aesthetics. For honesty. And if who you know isn't who I am... I've lost myself.

This arrogance. This pretense. This is my aethetic. This is my defense.

One day maybe I'll learn to trust again.

Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike