callmeanonymous - 7
I had a bad thought today, chewed skin from palm, sinned myself raw
I watched the razor blade too closely, ran my hand across a flame, let the pill sit on tongue, and it’s bitter, but I swallow, and when I look at the ceiling I see a noose, pale skin in the tub, blue veins on the pillows
I had a bad thought today, chewed skin from palm, sinned myself raw
I turned my head into you whispering, let it tickle my ear, remembered I said fuck fuck fuck and then your name, and it’s warm, and it’s wet
I had a bad thought today, chewed skin from palm, sinned myself raw
I saw the way she cut her hair, pulled at a curl, laughed that she’s always a few steps behind me, took the shears to my ends
I had a bad thought today, chewed skin from palm, sinned myself raw
I knelt on tile floors, wept the way I wanted my mouth to, nuzzled the back of my throat, I hold it down, watch the way I fill, think how I’m never full
I had a bad thought today, chewed skin from palm, sinned myself raw, sinned myself raw
An Ode to an Ode
⚠️⚠️ Emotion Dump ⚠️
An Ode to an Ode
The raw feelings that words can evoke often get lost in flowery prose and sophisticated jargon. It’s quite ironic but I find it to be true in most cases. Whenever I try to rephrase my thoughts artistically, I forget what I’m really trying to convey.
A rough draft is more honest than a revised one.
So from now on, I won’t rephrase my stream of consciousness. I’ll simply write down whatever thoughts decide to gradually, albeit brutally, gnaw their way into my psyche.
There are certainly some regular customers at my mental cafe for late night overthinking. One of my most persistent customers is “Coincidence.”
In English, we’re taught a slew of literary devices so we can discern underlying messages within the overall plot. There’s foreshadowing and symbolism and parallels repetition and whatnot. We become masters at bullshitting some meaning behind a reoccurring color or object in a story.
But it’s jarring when some of these literary devices seemingly creep their way into our lives.
Seeing parallels between your life and the media you consumer makes sense on paper. You tend to surround yourself with media that caters to who you are. Yet, it’s still something I can’t quite wrap my head around. Why are my emotions so similar to so many other seemingly unrelated events?
Do coincidences really happen or are we just meandering wayfarers that seek to extrapolate meaning from our lives?
My mind always drifts back to this one music piece. The title is befitting.
“Sincerely.”
Sincerely is derived from the Latin statement “Sine Cera”. It roughly translates to “without wax.”
Sculptors can hide the imperfections in their work by utilizing wax. By saying that your words were devoid of wax, you are confessing that they are not laced with deceit. They’re out there for everyone to see despite all of the imperfections that mar the ink smeared stationary. Concluding your letter with “Sine Cera” meant that you were making an unfiltered confession.
In a similar vein, “Sincerely.” plays at the end of each episode.
It’s sweet but fleeting. It’s beautiful and ethereal. But it’s also simple and very repetitive.
In terms of music theory, there’s really nothing much to it. It’s a short exiting theme for an animated show. Almost every instrumental arrangement of it just repeats the same motif over and over again.
Despite it’s simplicity, it’ll always be profound to me. It evokes the same viscerally churning turmoil that Schubert’s heartbreaking Fantasie in F minor does.
Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture has literal cannons in it and yet, Sincerely is better at morphing me into me a trembling, weak, emotional wreck.
I attribute my fondness to this piece to mere coincidence. What else could it be?
I found it at the right time and it provided intangible comfort for me.
-|-
“ How lonely it is here, and how well it suits you. “
Franz Kafka
“Why am I so lonely?” is a mantra I’ve kept repeating although I already knew the answer. It’s because I didn’t bother talking to anybody.
Over the years, I’ve made more attempts at that. I thought I was finally getting better.
But when I was in COVID isolation, that statement reemerged with waxing intensity. My phone was pitifully devoid of messages other than the occasional reminder to wear my N-95 mask and face shield before grabbing my meals.
It was lonely. The spinning, barren blue walls of my room kept me company. But only for a little bit. Then during the morning, noon and night I’d scurry like a mouse to get food and eat outside. It was an odd experience. There is nothing inherently weird with eating outside. But being forced to eat outside because you’ve suddenly been deemed contagious with a life threatening pathogen felt a little funky.
There were so many other thoughts that could have been running through my mind at the time. I was born and grew up as a relatively sickly child. For years I’ve dealt with severe respiratory issues. All throughout middle school I’ve been constantly sent home for fevers and randomly vomiting. Having COVID could’ve triggered something life threatening or permanently altered my breathing.
But instead, all I focused on at the time was crippling loneliness.
I kept wondering why nobody was checking up on me except my immediate family and a few random relatives overseas that I haven’t seen in years. I’ve told a handful of people and they all acknowledged it. But nobody checked up on me.
Nobody.
Early on, I realized that I couldn’t seek solace in anybody. So I turned towards media and sleeping. Sleeping worked like a charm at first. But then it slowly felt like a chore. I was always bed ridden and wheezing. I began to detest my bed.
I turned to eating. But then my taste left me, just like that. Eating was also a chore.
‘Exercise maybe.’ I mused at first. But when your body is seized by dull aches and your back feels like it’s going to break with each cough, you don’t want to move.
You want to precipitate.
As corny as it sounds, tv gave me transient peace. I began to watch a show and I heard a lovely little peace during each episode’s ending credits.
Sincerely.
It was so pretty.
The show itself was very bittersweet and I scoffed at the timing. It was coincidentally funny. At the time, it felt like I had hit a low point in my life (but as I’ve learned, it could always get worse. Prior to that, I have gone through worse. And yet, it felt like the lowest point at the time)
Its premise revolved around the main character writing letters for people. My unoriginal corny ass soon followed suit and started to write shitty poetry and angry journal entries.
After finishing the show and its spinoff movie, I began to scour the internet for piano covers. I wanted to replicate it. Even if my playing was clunky and ugly, I wanted to recreate a sliver of the music.
I can’t adequately describe the breathtaking yet very tranquil bliss I felt from watching each individual cover. It felt so profound but not in an overwhelming way. It was far too serene.
I later realized that all of those piano covers were dedicated to a real life tragedy. The animation studio that made the show was burnt down in a vendetta fueled fury. A handful of musicians had chosen to arrange Sincerely in their style and donate their ad revenue to the families of the Kyoani Arson attack victims.
The profound tragedy impelled me to invest the minuscule modicum of energy I had into learning the piece
.
And despite wanting to keel over, I kept attacking my flimsy $20 keyboard relentlessly. Repeatedly assaulting the unweighted keys as I tried imagining how it would feel if my piano was real. If it could resonate with the same intensity I was prone to feel.
I learned it. I learned it by the end of isolation.
I spent my whole winter break and all winter holidays locked up in my unique purgatory.
It wasn’t that bad now that I think about it. Having a break from people was honestly nice. I didn’t have to deal with creepy stalkers that persistently chased me despite having girlfriends. I didn’t have to deal with losing my mind trying to communicate with people who didn’t respect boundaries. All of the ebbing static from other peoples’ conflict and drama just ceased.
It was just me. A chance to focus on what it meant to be me. What I enjoyed. What I hated. What I feared. What I aspire to be.
Is it a bit narcissistic that this evoked happiness from me?
I also got to rekindle my neglected love of piano and writing
.
I went back to school the week after winter break ended
.
And didn’t think about this again for the longest time.
But when you’re stressed and lonely, your mind always reverts back to other times of misery.
-|-
Am I still lonely?
Yes.
And despite being surrounded by so many wonderful people that I love, I can’t help but feel lonely. So lonely. What is wrong with me?
But the only company that’ll ever keep this ebbing pain away consists solely of myself, my odd fixations and my anxiety
Honesty is mean. It’s the most cruel way of interacting.
Therefore, self acceptance is the most arduous task one can undergo.
Learning to appreciate your own company is a never ending journey.
-|-
I still want to talk to other people though. I want to learn more about the world through people and their experiences. I love people! I love the way their eyes crinkle when they gaze at something they adore. The inflection in their voice when they rave about something they enjoy. The way each person lights up in a different way as they walk through the door. People are all different yet the same. We share the same emotions despite varying interests and ways of expressing it.
When I head to college, would my progress reset? Would I revert back to an antisocial mess?
I’m so lonely.
I’ll start crying the moment someone says hi to me.
Any smile would move me to so many tears.
The slightest brush past my shoulder and I’ll collapse on my knees and sob until my eyes are as rheumy as Niobides.
Sometimes I want to do nothing more than crawl into bed and never wake up. I can’t bring myself to get out of bed unless my stomach aches or if it gets too cold to withstand.
When the school day ends, I feel like I’m in a fog. A painstaking bout of autopilot. Everything I do from that point on is a miserable haze.
I hate going home. I abhor going home. I will find any reason to stay away from home. Because whenever I step foot into my house, all I can feel are the intangible cordons of fatigue and misery dragging me down.
I don’t know why. It’s just a building. Still, I never cease to be sapped the moment I get home.
So if I can help it, I don’t do anything. After my obligations are cleared, I head to bed, wake up early and cram at 2am before heading to school. Cold showers, a shit ton of black coffee and an apple tends to snap me awake quite easily.
I used to work out. I don’t anymore because of this looming sense of panic hanging over my head like a clingy cloud. But that would probably help. Those running endorphins……
What even makes me happy anymore? My eating habits are so disorganized and bizarre. I either skip meals or binge on a mountain of carbs.
Music maybe. But I neglect it too much for it to bring enough joy.
I feel temporarily happy when I talk to people and that’s it.
Or when I visit my teachers during office hours. I genuinely love working through problems and learning even if it takes me a longass time to do so. It’s like I’m transported into a different world and I have one goal: to overcome a clear obstacle.
On the other hand, life is a massive mess and I am directionless. Just a hopelessly romantic vagrant whose emotions are wildly out of check.
Is my smile convincing enough? Are my mannerisms, riddled in deceit, enough to show others that I’m happy?
But why should it matter? It’s not like anyone cares.
Although in reality, I’m just pretending to be until it something changes. Fake it until you make it.
[Unedited,
05 04 2022]
-|-
If I get Baker Acted, I’ll know that it’s because one of you has snitched and I will haunt you in your sleep.
-|-
BURY ME IN MY COMPUTER, SPREAD MY PIXELS BEHIND THE WIRES.
I tell Téa how my post went viral on tumblr only after
deactivating & she says it’s like publishing poetry posthumously,
& how we could both turn famous once we die. I do still want to
return to Tumblr just for the drama of resurrection: I thank the people
who waited for me all these years & say hi. But honestly
all my favorite people know I’m still alive. I just crave the strangers
who once reblogged my posts to adore me again & again, like a motor
turning over. I do still measure myself in past tense, my bad.
Anyone who misses the old me believes I’m still trying to go back,
& some nights I believe it, too, so I lay in bed & listen to “The Funeral”
& pretend this is it, I’ve lasted long enough, everyone who loved me knew me
wrong. Or not. I have some faith that I am more than a bottle of blood, that if you hung me
up, there’d be a crowd livestreaming beneath me, crying
O! What a gorgeous day for mourning. I remain because I must.
When I die, my body will exhume love like dust.
It will spring out as petals & be hard to inhale. O!
Everyone will hate the scents of rotten flowers that should’ve been
plastic, but I’ve always been too sincere.
This Bitch Has Something to Say
"Can you provide a definition of the word woman?"
Republican Senator Marsha Blackburn from Kentucky recently asked Supreme Court Nominee Ketanji Brown Jackson to answer this question, not because she was looking for a personal answer - perhaps about the resilience and strength of women like Brown herself who rise in a patriarchal society despite its challenges - or because she suspects Jackson doesn't have a basic command of the English language, but because she was looking for a very specific answer about biology and chromosomes.
To start, we should all be able to recognize that the question itself is irrelevant in a Supreme Court confirmation hearing (much like most other Republican lines of questioning about religion and anti-racist babies), the purpose of which is to judge fitness for a life-long position on the bench. But more than that, it was a question not asked in good faith, one aiming to either A) catch Jackson in an answer that would somehow denigrate transwomen or B) get her to do exactly what she did - provide no answer - so that Republicans could froth over the mouth at it. Either way, what remained evident to me throughout those hearings is that what womanhood is most about is putting up with an exorbitant amount of bullshit. And sometimes, quite sadly, that bullshit is coming from your fellow women, whose internalized oppression endangers us all.
To be a woman is to wonder if your breasts make your shirt too tight for an interview, if you'll be able to walk home from the bar tonight alone, if you'll be heard at the doctor's office, if you'll be given the promotion even though you're pregnant, if your kids will resent you for the time you spent at work, if you're too quiet, too loud, too emotional, too aggressive, too ugly, too pretty, not enough. It is learning to exist and attempting to thrive in a world that was built for you to fail, because no matter what you do someone will notice you are trying to escape the confines of the cage built for you and they WILL have something to say about it. Your freedom makes men uncomfortable.
And yes, things are slowly changing. We can have conversations about gender as a construct, gender as performance, gender as fluid - all valid and complex assertions that deserve to be explored. But there is no erasing the experience of being a woman, which regardless of the anatomy you have, is irrevocably linked to the way you move through the world and are perceived. The treatment you receive (or are denied, if we are speaking of the reproductive health kind), the assumptions made (about your intellect, your desire, your capabilities), the tight rope you must walk that almost always requires a polite smile in the face of ignorance at best and outright sexism at worst.
Maybe to be a woman is to exist as the nexus of all these constraints and contradictions. And any moment of joy in the face of such a thing is both a triumph and act of resistance. Womanhood is war.