Matt Costa and Eyeball Headaches

Everyone can read your thoughts on the internet.

It's all about self-censorship.

Because I want to be honest. Because I want to say what I feel.

But I'm scared you'll read. Or that you will. Or that maybe even you. And, you know, maybe I need to turn off a little bit.

I'm sitting in a room with Christmas lights and paper poinsettias and listening to Matt Costa. Because for some reason, I'm feeling like Adam Trask right now. Steinbeck defines my life somethings. Though mostly when things are bad, and my existence is flooded with responsibility and stupid heart palpitations.

You're right there. Persistent.

My sister and I once spoke of eyeball headaches (migraines). It's throbbing, I told her. Clenching and unclenching my fist. And it gets so that maybe I forget. Then the fucker comes back. And it almost hurts more because I forgot. It almost hurts more because I had hope.

You are a pain. You are an eyeball headache.

And I want to write about it.

But darling, you have to promise not to read. Or, at least, you have to promise not to judge.

But this is anticlimatic. Because I haven't written anything in a long time. Because things feel synthetic or trite or melodramatic. And I want to tease at all the excess fluff until I truly understand. But I'm heaping pretty words on paper and blindly believing that this leads to growth.

It doesn't, does it?



And I had my ego stroked or violated last Wednesday. When some freshmen boy couldn't seem to tear his brown eyes from my chest. Just staring. Just following with his oversized eyes.

And I'm remembering when my French housemate told me I had generous breasts.

And I'm thinking about how we attribute so much to physical beauty. We want to feel attractive. We want to ensnare those that occupy our attentions.

We're arguably deeper than our skin. We're arguably more valuable tan our cheek bones and skin color and fat distribution.

Shouldn't love be worth more than the way we look in the morning? Me, with my hair knotted and my skin pale and my eyes unlined.

I've been called smart before. Quite a bit, actually. But for some reason, it's not worth as much as one 'beautiful.' And for some reason, that's worth still less than knowing that you might have wanted me.


This has no organization. What argument am I even making? What am I trying to communicated?

And does it matter?

No.

I just ant to be able to say your name once. On the internet. Or aloud. To you. And have that honesty define my existence.

And I want to be done with this semester and papers on Muhammad and the Minoans and Abraham.


Mostly, I'm restless, love. And I think it's because of you. And I think it's because of uncertain futures. And I think it's because 'what if's' hang heavy on my lips when I pray to the stars at night.

I can't divorce myself from memories. They're tearing at my subconscious. When I dream of you and of peeling my skin and of knowing what love truly is.

This is enough for now. I need this to be enough for now.


Aren't musicians beautiful people?

Sadly, this one is married.