You

You think the world can’t possibly not love you. Most days.

And others, you feel tiny as a speck of sand. A nanobot. Why would anyone dream of you?

You take a shower, cover your face with your hands. Let the water pour over you. Think “this is my life, and my life is absurd.” Maybe you even say it aloud. There’s no one there to hear you anyway.

You think you have control. You always have control. You quote from Radiohead. “I want to have control.” If you’re singing that you want it, you don’t already have it.

You think you always say what you mean. So just this time, you won’t. Just this time, you can afford to be vague. It can’t possibly go wrong.

You are wrong.

You hardly ever say what you mean, when it matters. You know what you would like to hear, but you won’t say it yourself. You are a coward.

You think you are a realist. You think you’ve been brainwashed by optimists, and they’re the ones who call you coward—they of the storybook endings and “Say Anything” monologues. People aren’t really like that, you think. That doesn’t really happen.

Not unless you make it happen.

You.

You just don’t get it, do you?

Or, maybe this is all about me.