I'm (supposedly) not missing you

I am the most obvious person in the world.

I mean, I always keep secrets and end up telling them to everyone anyway. But who could help it? Every secret's bound to get out of the leash sometime - in a showbiz talk show, in an open forum, in a Freudian slip attentively caught.

Stacie Orrico's song doesn't attract me that much. Who knew she'd do the shift from alternative pop to almost manufactured soul? I'm Not Missing You doesn't strike much but I somehow enjoy listening, precisely because I realize I'm finding myself one of the lines she kept on singing. I don't feel the distance.

Who would've thought? Maybe this is the time I've long been wishing to happen. I don't wake up anymore anxious - I wake up a with a mood that's a bit lighter, or I even bother to try to sleep again. It's like I've wanted to regain all that stress has done on me.

Yet I couldn't deny that I wake up with a different kind of anxiety. And, if you look at it another way, you'd realize this anxiety's all the same. And, this anxiety's doing the same things to me, only in a different way. However, if you look at it in a different way again, you'll see that it's the same old conversations, the same old implications, and the same old obsessive tendencies I've never wanted to demonstrate.

Then again, it's starting to creep out of the back door.

I think it's simply a magazine-enforced template. Once you realize all your mistakes you ought to hide in a shell and isolate yourself in places, but not entirely. It's always supposed to be animosity and lightning sparks flashing when your eyes meet - or maybe teardrops forming, but it always turns out to be different.

I've gotten used to the fact that things won't conform as enforced, like bubble suds flowing in a car wash gutter. A false sense ensues, though - it seems nobody would notice when you try to play it differently. It still does, though. Somehow it always comes out.

Somehow, at this very moment, I decide to play differently, people decide to look differently, and things turns out to be all the same.

Earlier on the radio, someone said that writing stuff somewhere lessens your stress by (a probably misquoted number which is) sixty percent. Maybe this would help - not that I'm stressing over it or anything. There was just this urge to let it all out without providing essential details. Then again, you couldn't keep presuming that everyone, except for those who were told beforehand, is stupid and will remain so unless you do something about it.

I just realized that whatever happens is always my fault. Look, I'm writing short paragraphs, and a voice is telling me not to, precisely because I'm making myself obvious again.

I'd still love to presume that everyone is stupid and will remain so.

But when our eyes meet, everybody will know. I would've been very obvious again.

And your responses...

Post a Comment