oh, apparently I'm choking

"what do you do all day?"

"well, I work five days a week. that takes up a lot of my time."

"I see. I've noticed that you've tapped your feet to three songs in the past hour. do you like these songs?"

"they remind me of last summer."

"oh, like, from parties with alcohol and sex and stuff?"

"no, working in a cubicle. radio stations played them on repeat, I swear."

"oh, I see. so, what else do you do?"

"well, I'm seriously really boring, I mean, I write to make my life look interesting. I look everywhere for a present-tensed life, but I'm still dwelling in the pages of yesterday and of months ago. sometimes mum puts a blindfold over my eyes so that I can pretend I'm actually blind as opposed to crazy for not being able to find things. when my eyes are closed, my mind opens, and that's when I start painting."

"what do you paint?"

"sometimes I paint my whole canvas black. it opens my mind to so many possibilities. it allows me to think whatever I want of the finished piece. sometimes when I can't sleep at night, I go downstairs and turn off all the lights and just stand there. standing in the dark inspires me because it allows for imagination. anything could be happening in a room without light. I'm overwhelmed at the thought that someone could be standing right next to me in the dark and I wouldn’t know. it's like the truth, you know? people are unaware of it. I stand there in an unlit house and I see nothing. I could be somewhere else, for all I know. I see darkness, and for all I know, it could be the end of the world. with my imagination in a dark room, I see black crows, black licorice, and black holes. I also sometimes see my ex-boyfriend's heart."

"...how do you feel about music?"

"oh, I love music. after work and writing and painting, I let music drown me in its (radio)waves as the mouth of sleep swallows me whole."

"your life is beautiful in the loneliest way. or lonely in the most beautiful way. you're beautiful, you know."

"no, just lonely."

"do you ever read?"

"yes. actually, just last night I curled up on the couch with a book, except I didn't read the book."

"oh?"

"yeah. I saw a stranger in my window reflection and I decided to read her thoughts instead. the pages of her brain were filled."

"what was she thinking about?"

"she was thinking about falling and tears, and her eyes were pens that collaborated on those two ideas. she was thinking about ghosts, the kind that follow you like guilt and temptation. she considered writing her whole story in the sand or in wet concrete, but she wasn’t sure which idea she hated more: the waves washing it all away or the moment when the cement dried and her truths would permanently be there for everyone to discover. see, she wasn’t just afraid of people knowing her, she was afraid of the truth in general. she knew you could remove a "t" in truth and find the word "hurt." she was afraid of the truth and afraid of getting the kind of truth that lacked a "t." she knew life was all about removing things and not replacing them with other things. I watch her sometimes. I don’t think she's okay."

"I can't breathe when you speak like this."

"my words are just two breaths of air out of a thousand."

"I inhale them and let them become a part of me."

"my words are just light issues, you know. you should just dismiss them the way you disregard everything around you as you experience a coughing fit."