The Glass Is Imaginary

Inspiration is hard to come by. Inspiration is even harder to come by when you’re a very young writer with an ever unattainable ideal of what is “meaningful”. Even if you asked nicely, I could not, ever, give you an exact definition of what “meaningful” is for me. It’s a feeling. It’s a feeling you must get from a piece of work that sets it apart from the others. You can get it from a movie, a painting or from a bottle of water and a cup of coffee. It’s this ethereal sensation that can’t be put into words and is physically non-existent. Technically it’s non-existent in every sense.

Still I get a feeling from someone’s eyes and from someone’s words that their soul or their brain or the electrical pulses that run through their bodies are “meaningful”.

And maybe sometimes I erase whole pages of something I’ve written thinking it’s not “meaningful” enough because I don’t want to write or say anything that won’t make a difference. To things that don’t really matter people usually say “It won’t change how mustard tastes”. I think it’s not worth doing if it doesn’t change how mustard tastes. In fact, it should make mustard taste better. It should make mustard feel like a day in the park, sitting next to someone you actually love, eating sandwiches lightly spiced by that same mustard. Something meaningful makes mustard taste like that time you got bullied to tears but then went out and got an ice cream. And that ice cream tasted to incredibly “meaningful” that your whole life was defined by that decisive moment in which your tongue gently brushed the frozen surface of your food and your teeth felt the cold and you remembered you had a sore throat and it doesn’t matter if you’re going to be sick for a week because you felt it. You felt that meaning with your being. “Meaningful” writing should make mustard taste like a love letter you wrote and secretly hid in someone’s locker. It should taste like waiting for hours, waiting to see if that person has opened her locker or not. It should taste like pain with every single word you have poured into ink and that will inevitably find its way to that person’s memory and mind and maybe they will remember you forever as someone who wrote them the most beautiful love letter anyone has ever written them.

Quick fact, I might be the dumbest person in the planet. I say ‘might’ because maybe that top ranking is shared between many people and I’m actually just one of the dumbest people in the planet. But I might be because certain cultures say only idiots sigh. Only morons dream. Only imbeciles look at the stars and dream of love so pure and infinite that it’s unbearably “meaningful” and every time you think about it you think it’ll never come because it’s perfect and immaculate and unchanging.

My life is a repetition of a repetition of a repetition. I cannot do anything I haven’t done before. I am cursed to experience the same loss, the same heartbreak, the same feeling, over and over again. My rhythm, it scares away my worrying and my ego. Because everything that has happened will happen again. I’m 21 but I’m hundreds of years old and the marks on my face are invisible because they’re not there. My hands are broken and I write in infinite streams of thought that never come up with anything worth saying. My legs they will only walk in your direction because there exists no other direction. My feet they hurt there’s glass stuck below them and I can’t do anything about it because my every breath is dedicated to taking myself one step closer to your door. Because I must. Because it’s a feeling that getting your door constitutes something “meaningful” in my meaningless existence.

Your face is a constellation I desperately want to explore. Your smile is a hurricane and I’m addicted to standing in the middle of it with a video camera and a microphone hoping to some way capture it for eternity. Your legs they start gracefully and end in the most beautiful of corners and I’m just feeling them over to see if I can map them in my head and still find something new. And my hand on your cheekbones, it rests indefinitely like it belongs there and always has. Dreaming of you and your meaningfulness, my mind can’t sleep and my nose desperately tries to find your smell because it feels like home. And home feels so far away all the time. I wait forever for a change in your expression that tells me that I am your home too and I am cursed to stare at your eyes for eternities never moving an inch.

I stutter and I shut up and I try to say something but don’t because I’m scared you won’t like it. I smile too much and I cry way too often because I know it makes no difference but still I have to deal with it somehow.

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