I’m fucked, deeply and spiritually. My ideas require more revision. They aren’t getting their due. It’s December 29th, 2014, and I want things to be different. I want to go back in time. I want to heal my trauma. I want to lie in bed next to you and pretend everything is alright. I want my brain back. I would like to release. I am holding onto whatever is in the air.
Last night I saw a composite photograph of a woman who was stuffed inside a suitcase. A photograph of the dead as she might have been alive, made out of the corpse, next to an image of the woman before she died. I think about those two images now and want to cry, and when I think about crying for the woman what I feel like crying for is her overbite. For the cruelty of a man killing a woman with an overbite and putting her in a suitcase without any identification; for the family to have to identify their daughter via the face of the dead.
My roommate received magnetic poetry for Christmas and I have been writing poems on the refrigerator. I mentioned this to my roommate. “Poems? I didn’t see any poems.” I pointed them out to him. “You can’t just put anything you want,” he said. “They have to make sense.” I can do anything I want, I replied, except write the essay I’m supposed to be writing now. I will return to it soon. I have to finish, if not tonight, then by early next morning.
I have laid out a torturous future for myself. I have a mental block so large it cannot be conceived of. It is far away and difficult to understand. But it is there always. I would like to get away from it sometime, at least for a little while. I am trying to conceive of strategies. I am tired of this present. I want a future where I don’t have to worry about it anymore. A future where I can feel confident about making something of myself.
I have had pasts like that. That it might come in the future is therefore something one might expect.