i respond to the hurt i feel by writing cleverly coded, overly ornate pieces of bullshit that always manage to disguise whatever it is that makes me want to express those feelings in the first place.
i carefully avoid invoking the “i”, and even my “you” is so easy to see through. so diluted, and even if you know what i meant to say, the meaning proves untraceable. where in the world is waldo?
i gather up the truth, smash into all sorts of incongruous pieces and then lay it out in a half-assed attempt at making a mosaic; so many pieces left out, and so many shards contorted into unrecognizable tiles with unassuming edges. and they weren’t even that interesting to look at, let alone beautiful.
sometimes, a game of tetris—or, how to assemble objects in an empty space. if you flip that story to that angle, and scoot that fact over a few slots, well somehow it all fits and nobody gets hurt. except when it doesn’t and the whole thing comes tumbling down. or is that jenga?
that’s the thing about using a lot of words: not everyone knows/sees/cares what you aren’t saying... and more probably, even what you are.
