Rewriting

I have said so many seemingly shocking things that I no longer have a barometer for what is and isn’t interesting. The hum of my voice as it leaves my mouth has always been monotonous, which is why instead of speaking I stare blankly just past the horizon. I wonder what is out there. I wonder what I haven’t seen yet. I wonder what is blatant and blaring and gauche over there. Here? Nothing is very scandalous. People politely fuck each other and fuck each other over, and it’s fine. It’s a tempered status quo. We’ve gotten used to it. The knock down, drag out fights are nothing worth nodding at any more – just let those people live their peace which is also their violence. That’s none of our business. I keep looking beyond, slightly squinting. Maybe if I stare at the sun too long, I’ll go blind, and then I can write beautiful poems about what it must feel like to still see. No. That is self indulgent. Mustn’t self indulge. Must be a natural beauty after spending hundreds of dollars on powders and creams and lotions. That is the only way to cope with this. Must let my dreams fade into the background and then completely forget about them so that I can continue to live in this landscape which is dotted with other women who are exactly, down to the fingernails, like me. Must be okay with it. I am okay with it. I am okay with being here. I am keeping my head down and being here. I just wish that it made for less boring prose. Being surrounded by like minded peers who value the same things as I do sure makes me feel content, but who wants to read about that? Where’s the war these days? How am I supposed to sell magazines when all we have is peace among nations? Why do my dreams die in the absence of violence? I have been conditioned to be a creature of survival. I will always strive to be the fittest, but once I am the fittest – then what? The chore of world domination? Yawn. I want to feel small again, like I can slip between the cracks, beneath the pavement, into the gutter, back towards the ocean, where it is clean and warm and I can waft away into some cinematic ether. It would be nice to know that everything is going to be okay. Instead, I know that everything is good enough, it’s eh, it’ll do. But it could be better. And it won’t be, because as soon as it’s better, there will be some better better just out of arm’s reach. Why are my arms so short. Why is my imagination so small. Why am I trapped inside the cage of a dream that wasn’t big enough. Why didn’t I dream for the entire world to be mine? I mean, I don’t want it, but it would be nice to at least have the option to have it. To say no. To look lofty, alit on some moral high horse, a champion of the people, with a sword that is on fire and my hair looking good. That would be nice. Is that my dream? To be the rebel, vindicated? Revolution, attained? Ugh, but if I attain revolution, then what do I revolt against if not my own revolution. Or – do I just keep turning, all the time. I can stand still on this planet for twenty for hours and that is enough of a revolution for me. That is enough of a dream achieved. I have done it. I have accomplished the revolution by sitting still for twenty four hours. Hooray for me. I should write about that. Right?

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