My parents often find me in my room with the computer screen as the sole source of light– I’ve considered the angsty title of “Typing in the Dark” as a blog title but it’s so kitschy clever, like a tumblog title where tweens who live in their parent’s giant mansion are imagined to be dip dying their long, blonde manes purple, listening to Radiohead and Bjork simultaneously, casually lighting up a spliff with a vintage Zippo they found in their dad’s secret stash-box– that I end up scowling whenever I say it aloud in my mind, or feeling depressed about the struggle to be or not to be very cool.
While it’s cool to be quite nonchalant, you sort of miss the raw emotions of being ‘in the now’, or whatever that means– cliches like “live every day like it’s your last” versus “nothing f*cking matters” to seem “cool”, either unaffected by life’s marvels and disappointments or completely thrumming with an ungodly energy– those types of people you cling on to (sometimes at a cautious distance; a muse can burn if you sit too close) that you hope by mere association, the light in their eyes might rub off on you and you’ll be able to smile and sip on cigarettes without cancer conscious regret. Ah, the neuroticism. Ah, the self conscious blushes and stammers of second thoughts colliding with the first, or the clumsy twist of the tongue as your brain moves one way and your heart, the other.
Sometimes I forget what to say because I’m thinking of what’s said.
Sometimes I forget what is said because I’m thinking of what to say.