Friday, September 25, 2015

i can't remember exactly when we stopped talking. my memory is shot, so that's a lofty task, one that boasts zero results. things with numbers are all about fear of zero-ness. it's the most intriguing number.
i know some disconnect must've happened, but i don't know remember anything like that. it was just like a bubble. a bubble is there and magnificent, and then it isn't there. it doesn't lose its magnificence, just its being there. i don't know what it is i said, what i did. i realize this is me fishing for shame, really- but too, i literally don't remember, so it feels like a memory is missing. i need you to put yourself in your shoes you wore when you were two years old, because it's difficult for the matured adult brain to fathom. i react to unresponsiveness like a small child confused over object constancy until the hereupon of inconstancy. it is the object which i believe my own invented conclusions of, as i regard them without hesitation, without reservation, or any intervening. i repeat: i am a small child.

dear world: i repeat over and over again, i am child. treat children like how you wish children treated you.