Friday, October 21, 2011

story about a list

I’m going to make a list of all the things I really like. Okay? All of the things on the list are things that I really love. When I think about these things they make me smile sometimes I’m smiling even if no one can see it it means I’m smiling on the inside. Some of the things, when I do them I don’t feel anything I am separate from the thing and from myself. These things must be the things I love the most. A lot of the things that are on the list I like doing with others although I think although a lot of the time I would prefer to be alone. I’m not lonely though. I like being around a lot of people all by myself. Like being at a café and sharing a smile with someone or some passing comment about our orders and laughing and eye contact and then back to our own worlds. I don’t know if the things on the list are things I really like or I really want but then I suppose if I want them I like them, right? The things on the list sometimes I have to get just right like the time and place and how I’m positioned and where the sun is. A lot of the things on the list I never actually get done so now I’m unsure whether I really love them or not or just like them or am just using them to fill up gaps in a page to to appear interesting and busy like somehow the list gives my life meaning but if the contents of the list are inherently meaningless then life is essentially redundant. Shit. I have grown to hate a lot of things on the list because thinking about them makes me nervous and I feel unsafe and that the list is untrustworthy. The list is confusing I don’t know what to say to the list sometimes because the list has grown a quick temper. Sometimes I pick at the list and tear little slits in it around the edges other times I cry on the list and it goes soggy. The list is supposed to bring me comfort but the things keep changing and I can never keep up the list makes me hate myself. The list has grown a mind of its own the list has ambitions now. The list is a narcissist and a megalomaniac. The List’s ego is measured by the size of the bullet points and now they are 100pts larger than before. I don’t like the List anymore. The List doesn’t like me. I try and write things on the List but the List won’t let me instead the List is writing it’s own List and I'm now lost in the washing machine, just decaying slowly with the petrol receipt and the lolly wrappers and the lint.