"Something you can't see or hear or touch or smell: OK. All right. But something you can't even feel? Because that's what he feels when he tries to understand something to really sincerely pray to. Nothingness. He says when he tries to pray he gets this like image in his mind's eye of the brainwaves or whatever of his prayers going out and out, with nothing to stop them, going, going, radiating out into like space and outliving him and still going and never hitting Anything out there, much less Something with an ear. Much much less Something with an ear that could possibly give a rat's ass."

From Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.

Because I've been watching so many videos and having conversations of thoughtfulness

Trying to compile a list of intimate equidistances, somewhere lost between where I found you and where I came from, walking backwards on my hands, which is more like forewards afterall, and all I can do is apologize for not remembering how to love you more. I cant explain what I'm trying to do because I'm not sure that I'm trying to do much of anything, other than try to try my best or something resembling effortless happenings. There's nothing much I can do to adjust the prefixes, adjust my "past" as they keep referring to it as, forgetting that its happening all the time. Do you remember the first time it happened? Crossing over rocky mountain tops and letting the Allman Brothers wake me up first class or last class, or late to class maybe, all I remember is a song of letting things go, moving forward, pushing on. This is the inspiration. This is the poetry. This is the nakedness of everyone I've ever said "I love you" to. I'm never sorry for forgiveness and I'm not sorry for the rest of it either, but words hurt like bee stings that don't happen --- perpetual paranoid and papercut fingers. I remember how proud I was when I could tell my mom how to drive to the library, her pretending she'd forgotten the way just to give me something to do. I remember this and remember poetry and remember pretending like its the only thing, and I dont know how I forgot this before. There's something missing in you now, but I know where to find it. I just don't know how, how to turn left or make an appearance that makes an apparent difference. You grew a beard and I could barely recognize your immense cheerfulness. Given the arithmetic, I am reminded of my inability to cause joy and my lack of bandages. But then I look to the sky, bright blue and pregnant with rainclouds and I am lost in something more apparent that all these problems I had to excavate from my loved ones. I'm not a sorry person, but I'm sorry for being the person I have been--- sometimes. Not today. Today I'm fine. Today is a feeling

because matthew reminded me of carrollton, i reminded me of b.c.

brighted blue skin astringent smells like five weeks in spain and missing perfect teeth. somewhere between locked eyes and me telling my lover lies, i remember what wasn't waiting for me back home, in georgia, where it was probably raining, like it didn't for five weeks--- at least, it wasn't raining to me. but spanish is hard for me to grasp, even harder back then, muffled between locked lips above metro entryways, mapped out in picasso's confusion, or dressed on cream cheese pizza... noise and noise and beautiful noises reminding me that nothing, even a good thing, makes sense. but maybe spanish rain is dry, like the way my eyes were that summer, the summer of refusal, the summer of turning off the lights in order to hear someone else. farah's big brown eyes made me feel loved and understood, even though she is my opposite- how my little cosmo is now. something like understanding the impossibility of this is what made me forget how badly i wanted to forget other things. today, this is what i remember.

i feel like i deserve to be missed more. i know this is selfish, i guess.