Existentialism (No. 9)

(I like this video way too much.

If you watch the whole thing:

marry me?)

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Here lies a hiccup, a hunger, a love.  

I wanted to do something that deserves to be talked about.  Because I'm a bad sister and a bad lover and a bad student and writing was the only thing I thought would redeem me.  It's my last plea for guidance, my last second chance.

I'm afraid that my lack of a past is a sign that I don't really exist.  My mind is plagued by snapshot images of nights in front of the television and folding laundry with my mom.  Movies and car rides and sunset colored walks through trees.  The haunted playhouse and Hilary Duff.  I'm afraid that I made it all up.  Because I can't hear anyone, and I can't remember what they look like.  I can't see more than 5 seconds.  I can't find what I should have never forgotten.

I'm afraid that you'll tell me the truth about everything, and I won't be me anymore.  I'm afraid of waking up one day and looking 60 years old and not knowing how I got there.  Not knowing why I can't run as fast as I used to and why I never had any kids.  

I'm afraid that you'll forget all about me, like I have forgotten you.  So easily.  So shamelessly.  

I think that even if I do end up with my handprints in the sidewalk, I'll still feel this way.  No matter how many vague metaphors I make or how many songs I listen to.  Even if I do end up making that movie about the girl who doesn't fall in love in the end.  Even if I do end up giving that acceptance speech.  I'm not ever going to move on.  I'm not ever going to be satisfied.

What I'm trying to say is that I wanted to be fixed.  I wanted to be able to get up and out and not stress about making small talk.  I wanted to make you laugh.  And I wanted to exist.  

But I guess writing is better than existing.

You get to pretend to exist.