invisiblecricket

I’ve thrown out whole notebooks in passionate editing frenzies. So many poems of mine have crumbled under the weight of revision. They have not refused to be corrected so much as just completely ceased to exist. I’ll just take out line after line until there is nothing but scribbles and personal insults in the margins of my notebooks. It’s a problem.

I’ve even taken to pretending to be disillusioned. And pretending I like people I don’t. And pretending I don’t like people I do. And pretending everything will be okay if I just pretend nothing is wrong in the first place. And pretending I don’t want anyone to touch me. Because sometimes there are a few people I wouldn’t mind shaking hands with or even (to a lesser extent) hugging. We’ve got to squelch all those feelings though. It’s all about outward appearance anyway, right?

I’ve noticed myself at least three times, but left anyway. Did it again today. This needs to stop. I have nothing but integrity to live for, and right now I do not have much of that at all.