I don't anymore.
Now it's a hollow constant need to re-affirm my body is a real as I feel it.
Again and again, as I don't allow myself to trust my memory.
(So typically OCD and detached and depersonalised)
So typically absolutely fucking normal like every timid, suffering little flower on this long wall of frustrated existence.
"What makes you more salient than your environment?" and other torturing job-interview style questions ringing distorted with the usual left-ear tinnitus.
"This could be approached in tooo many ways", I reply, not satisfying my interrogation one bit.
REWIND
No. No no no. A lucky or clever or vague escape is massively lowbrow.
Not. fucking. allowed.
"Err... I just do not care! Honestly. Do not give a shit."
Eternally smirkful, with screwed up eyes- forgetting it's not sunny, I'm wearing glasses and don't need to see- I'm still only staring at the same lifeless detail in my visual field as before.
No no no.
It's only going to stop when a suitable answer has been implied (never offered-as I think in roundabout ways & tend to answer by painting the negative space, for the fun of never being sure I or anyone else I empathise with fully can be certain of anything).
And sometimes I have to get up or off before that happens, leaving a dazed expression on my confused, imperfect face for the rest of the day.
I look left and right and falter-pretending I remembered something, to distract my third-person-omniscient camera looking down on me. I repack my bag, take tissue out of right pocket, faux-sniffing it & replacing.
I am not one to worry about the flatness of my hair, so I'll only scratch it before I get up and act all adult and unisex and importantly sure of my steps. I'm so not.
