False, that I walk through a gray Tokyo evening, arms out like a windswept umbrella, crying to Jeff Buckley. False, that I have fallen in love. False, that my abs won’t show, no matter how long I plank on the ribbed mat. False, that I choked on a mackerel bone. Fickleness that knows few bounds.
I reread my writing and wonder how I got so angry. These feelings don’t fit comfortably against such a soft, impressionable heart. These feelings compress me into arrest. I keep throwing my body against the barricade and refusing to flinch.
I need to say that I hate nature and I love cityscapes. I love neon ripples reflected on glass. I love knitted telephone wires. I love concrete heaving hotly in the sun. I love greenery only when it grows, panting and emaciated, out of the tar. I’m mad because no one will ever love me like Michael Mann loves the American city. Through close reading, with passionate understanding. Some men get one half but rarely a second.
Ref, do something!
The rain falls apart on us when you see me differently though I have not changed. I don’t understand why my feelings aren’t a pillar inside me. They reshuffle for a joke, disintegrate. They do everything but stay the same. How can they change so much? And so quickly? Dealing thunder, dealing red and blue. Bushel of nectarines, capsizing.
I write and post this too quickly because it scares me.
False, that I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate myself and I love others. My actions betray my words, my values; they too are a joke. I write and post this because I want to commiserate.
False, that I don’t appreciate your comment. I write you back to say, you’re not alone in this.