Forty-Something Years in Ninaland


Say Anything


I feel like I can’t say what I’m going to say. I feel like I can’t be the person who says things because people will talk about me. But who am I? What the hell will anyone care about me? Maybe I’m like this Indian puritan.

I want to talk to myself, to you. I want to say things you don’t want to hear. Things that will bother you. I want to annoy the shit out of you. But then again I’m only doing this so someone will love me. Who is someone? Someone love me, please.

I’m tired of the old sad love stories. I will tell you the story of myself. I’ve never had real love. Men have loved me, and I didn’t love them. Or I loved a man and he didn’t love me. I have never seen what they call the truth in love. Is there true love? It’s sad that I have to ask that question. Is there truth?

I think there is both. That is why I continue living. Because something exists, something called love in it’s purest, realist sense. You know I have eyes, I can see this love thing all around me. But I have never found it. I don’t know where it is for me, but I still believe it is there.

I really want to ask the age old question: what is love? Sometimes I think I am love. I think you are love. I think we are love.

Does that sound cheesy? Does that sound lame?

Love is not here. I am here, but there is no love in this corner of the room where I sit. I want to cry in your lap and I want you to kiss me. Whoever the fuck you are. I don’t care. I have my period and I want to bleed all over you.

I can’t own this room, it still owns me. This is not mine, none of it is mine. Sometimes I’m dead…no one give me space, I have to make it. How do I make my space? What is space? My physical space, my sexual space, my emotional space, my spiritual space, my intellectual space.

You interrupt me when I know nothing anyways. I know nothing about how to be here, not any more than you know. There is so much more I want to say, but what is there to say after all? You want meaning. I have no meaning. You want life and I’m telling you what death smells like. Sometimes it’s scent is prettier than a rainbow. Rainbows don’t smell a certain way, you say. I do not make sense you say.

Tell me why you came here? There is something in you that is similar to what is in me. You came here because you had to, something called you. I called you. I’m hanging up on you now.

I think I’m better than this. This person who reveals too much and worries too much and sees too much and ignores it all. I can see you. Maybe you can see me. Is this a poem, or a piece of something. Some kind of piece. I don’t know, maybe it’s a piece of shit. Maybe I am as well.

Don’t worry I don’t really hate myself. I don’t hate you either. In fact, I think I may be in love with you. You, whoever you are. I think I know you. I’ve seen you before around here.

Love is funny, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a big joke, it’s taking us for a ride A merry go round. The world is spinning after all, in a circle. How come I can’t feel it moving. I can feel my heart moving, though.  I know the earth is revolving around the sun because I’m revolving around the earth.

That’s not even scientific. What am I saying?

Please hear me, even when I have nothing to say. Hear my silence for it is louder than my song. I’m singing all the time, this is my song. It’s not tune, is it?

I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m alive, I’m dead. I feel. I always feel. Will you at least hold my hand, I need this. Come with me and I will show you. I will show you what nothing really is. Nothing is really something. There is no nothing, and there is no something. What?

I sip my coffee and say my lies to you. Or are you lying to me? Maybe we are all lying to each other. The biggest lie is our silence. When we don’t speak up, we are not acknowledging our truth. Speak up, speak out, for me. I’m weak. I’m small. I need you.

What’s happening in the world? So much hellacious shit. I don’t like it. It makes me sad. Why aren’t you doing anything about it? Don’t ask me the same question, we just keep blaming each other. Whose fault is it anyways? Blame god, because he can’t talk back.

His silence may be his greatest truth.

Who are you? Say something.

I can’t even read this over. That’s how I feel about it. But it’s the only way I’m not invisible.

You check the spelling in my head. I don’t pronounce words right in the privacy of thought. I think I might not be stupid. But I’m not much more than that.

I am, I am this.


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 September 23rd, 2016  
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