I've been having a really hard time getting back on my writing game.
I have been thinking about someone so intensely that the relationship between the thoughts and my body has become a hermeneutic circle. The someone is a composite of the known universe, which is to say mostly a dark yaw of distances between ideas of people I know and do not know, have experienced and forgotten, emotional passports. My father’s birthday was yesterday and I felt like bidding him fare tidings, but then became morose later when I did not receive a text response back to my pithy “happy birthday and many returns.” And well, I was proud of myself for the formality of my Japanese, a language that simulates inner exploration anyway, but in the silence, I thought about the someone.
The way that people appear in my body, surprises me. I encourage the appearance. More accurate would be to call it a touch scent flavor and sound. Sight, the contingency of appearance, seems to be the only sense that requires a vacuum. If I am picturing your mouth chewing baked dough, for example, I cannot simultaneously watch television.
When I look for you inside my body, when I attempt to find the origin of my thoughts, I meander instead into the fantasy of scenarios; hypothetical outcomes based on hungers so dire I flail into a logic, like a televised depiction of someone high on Adderall. I make myself picture you chewing on pizza dough. This all seems to be one big request to be touched, interlocuted. I do not know why. I love being alone in my thoughts.
Your logic is flawless, and it is in the perfection of your response system that I find pain. It is in the porcelain logic of your behavior and the seamlessness of your manners, that I lose my mind. Flawless logic is what will kill me. I only need to know you. You only need to know me.