My needs overwhelmed my logic. Eating and sleeping beyond comfort, seeking extraneous flesh and personae.
Tightness, heartburn in my stomach, beneath my (once visible) rib cage. Memories of what if.
A girl I envied. Who I wanted so badly to be. She spoke transparently about the visiblity of absence; the allure of after, and the potential of what was.
High and drunk out of my mind, I escaped a place that was not so much mine as it was no one elses.
I could not shake the feeling of aloneness, it follows me wherever I go. Haunted.
She told me about her fascination with surrealism, the art form as a form itself, unsimplified by its definition as an escape from the "real."
I told her about my fascination with absence. My compulsion to describe objects and scenarios not as they are, but in the context of what they lack. My lifelong obsession with yearning for the unreal. My fantasies of robust relationships and full memories. If I were to write a book (I do not flatter myself by positing so sincerely) I would write it only about what is not. A girl fixated on the unreal.