Why don’t you talk like you write?
I don’t know, maybe I’m subconsciously trying to sound normal? I don’t want to be pretentiously throwing around metaphors I don’t understand?
So you don’t understand the metaphors you write?
I don’t really think them through, they just feel right.
I think that maybe, you’re a lot more pretentious than people think.
Why are you here?
Quite unexpectedly, you like to show up in my dreams. That is fine by me. Last night, I showered around 1 o’clock in the morning after mopping the store, and I thought about the way you used to sing. I didn’t believe in tone deafness until I met you.
During the night, I dreamt about a gathering of all our friends, and somehow, I was in New York, the yellow house, and you wouldn’t go away. I was happy to see you, I think. Mostly, I was relieved. I mean, you were clear and coherent, and you were here.
But in my dream, I knew you were gone. So I think I might have been a little mad. Because I knew that the person in my dream, the very persistently there and bizarre Tomas, was not the real one.
I don’t like telling people about my friend who overdosed; pity is not something I deal well with. You know how much I shrink and fluster under pitying stares. At the same time, I want the attention. It feels awkward to admit: I want people to feel sorry for me.
What did we even do together? We talked some. We laughed a lot, but only because we didn’t have anything else to do in the discomfort. We played with lighters and matches and candles. We complained endlessly.
Yet I don’t want to be found out to be a fraud. That I didn’t know you as well as I make it out. That’s what I’m left with, about 2 years later. A sense of loss that seems somehow incomplete. Now, it’s fading, and I don’t know how that really feels. I think everything is much quieter.
mortiflying 