mean something to me, mean something to me, mean something to me

I’m bad at being chill, I’m bad at being friends, but I’m trying. I’m detached and then I attach and then I detach again. This is hard work for me. I’m trying. I’m not saying too much, I’m not taking pictures of the moon and sending them to you even if it is so full and so yellow. The Sirens are about to start singing; I tie my hands up so I can’t use my phone. This time I’m really trying.

When I was born, the planets and their moons made me a revved engine. My astrology is fire, fire, fire, with just enough water to make me a sloshy, moldy piece of piece of construction paper. Thats fine, I think of myself as papier-mâché. I’m sculpting away at myself in my studio by answering my big questions: what does it all mean?

What does it all mean? Why are we talking? There are so many other people around us to talk to, why do we choose to talk to each other? We don’t even live in the same city. It has to mean something, it’s too tender to mean nothing. But look… it’s so small that I almost missed it… this is the line of thinking that leads into attachment. It’s the very next step. What I’m saying is you mean something to me. I can feel the hook in my eye (shoutout Margaret Atwood… ‘a fish hook / an open eye’). Here comes another big question, right away, do I mean something to you too? The answer has the ability to ruin my week. I go to the doctor to get the hook removed. A week is too long a time.

You can’t wait to get home and I can’t wait to leave home. Maybe that’s all this is. We are counterweights to each other without which we’d be in the heavens by now. I need you until my flight. You need me until the drugs wear off and you can stop walking.

What kind of fucked up life is this? The questions are big but the answers are small. Of course I’m completely off balance. Mean something to me, mean something to me, mean something to me. I’m sorry. I’m trying but it’s so hard.