Somethings are not solved just by knowing the answer, because not everything in our lives run by rationality. Frequently, we're locked in ourselves. We need a fuck-up to turn us around, someone's disappointment, someone's shrug, someone's wise words, someone's broken heart. We need that to finally turn around to the answer, something that may have been obvious, or perhaps not, but to finally clearly see it. At its utmost clarity, we move on.

If only loneliness was as cool as the indie movie heroes of romantic tragedy or something, as the dirty basement room, or the fluttering fans, it would not have been this chilly.


Stabilizers,
Michael

June 5th


It's two days in a row. I wake up again at after less than six hours of sleep. Music from my friend's room. Sunshine in my friend's to-be-roommate's room. Spending the rest of my trip here. All for the better. I am a lucky person.

I do nothing for a while, and feel like doing nothing for the day as well. I can't really fall asleep. Some annoying text messages to answer. Yes, yes, your love problems, Irene. Deal with it. I don't even use pseudonyms. Deal with it.

But thanks for the cheesy words though. 'That must have been how I was.' I get to distract myself from the grimy little heart. There is no theoretical, rational disappointment. Disappointments are just emotions and emotions are irresponsible. Then I still feel like doing nothing, but I decide to get up and find food.

I can't, so I look it up online and order food. I used to think that being able to order something through the phone is just a better testament to your ability than ordering things online. But now it isn't. Everything is ordered online. It's not weird. It's much preferred, even. Times change.

I decide to talk to another friend. Another Chicagoan, but not here. Thank god she answers. We talk online: the things that happened to me here, things to do in Chicago, and things that are going on in her life. She gives me a good list of cool things to do in Chicago. I still don't really feel like going out. We talk:

you don't have to close the conversation if you don't feel like it. i'm fine with silences.

i changed it
mostly because i realized theres no point in talking about it
there's nothing you can say to make it better
there's nothing you can do
so why put you in that position?
i'm the only one who can change it

yo

talking to other people

is one of the scariest
most unhelpful
but the most helpful
thing you can do
everyone has stories and issues too big to share.
that they didn't even organize it themselves because it's too big
and you just feel like turning on the TV instead
so it's scary to tell
and if you start telling it
it feels unhelpful
because people don't listen, people don't understand, people don't have valuable things to say back..
i mean, sometimes they do listen, understand, and be helpful
but
if you don't think they're annoying
its like
there's a sense of human camaraderie
i always appreciated people
who couldn't say anything back
to my stories
ecstatically caring people are nice too
but there are people who just
don't say anything and just- don't even nod, because they're literally sort of stuck
then i appreciate them and it makes me feel better
and i just go "but yeah. i'm doing prety well for myself though"
"sorry for going on a rant. thanks for listening." and i stopped saying "i don't even know why i told that to you"
because there's no way i wouldn't have said that to you
you know?

shits fucking flowing out of my brains right now. of course i'm going to puke it out onto people
and that's not anyones fault. worlds too much for any one person to carry

It makes the sun more bearable sometimes. And sometimes that's about all you could do. It's a sort of a distraction. Sort of the best thing, the only thing that you could do. Thanks for listening.

Let me know how your day in the city goes.

Lazy Tuesday morning,
Michael

June 2nd

   So,
there's a lot of outlets to resort to.
Or maybe distractions.
From the little chunks of things that do not dissolve in the fluid of things,
the things, emotions and such, that are not just trampling every corner of
my present thought processes- I like how that word is pronounced- but also
they do not disappear for good.

   Music works, it switches on some neurotransmitters, turns you around somewhat. Talking to other people, browsing the Internet, reading a book, all distract very well.

   Rediscovering my love for writing on myself. "Inks are poisonous for your skin."
So are many other things, like chips and beer. I smoke cigarettes, and I have a little neat counterarguments of sorts if you want.

   'Hey, is the music from my earphones to loud?' How nice is it to ask that, and how preemptive, and how inherently annoying are all these courtesies? There my thoughts end. I'm a considerate person. 'Considerate' is a neutral word.

   And you check the time, and it's late enough, inconsiderately enough, the time has moved on pretty fast. What kind of an asshole reminder does the clock give. I was doing well for myself.

   "If people are lonely,"
Damn, how unmanageable that is,
"then much of love, relationships, infatuations are just distractions."

   And away with what distraction means, what real problems lay behind my back, away with
those things with the plucking of your guitar, slow motion of the drumsticks, your thoughts

Much of what I start to see or start to think are unstoppable,
self-reinforcing words and thoughts inside the cage of what is called me.
There's an occasional slap from outside of me that beneficially shakes things around, but, but, it doesn't seem helpful, it doesn't seem helpful.

   Hi, I buy into marvel floors, swimming pools, nice suits, well-lit lighting, carpeted floors and a bottle of wine and other things that people do when they have money left after eating McDonald's.

   "Spill the cup of water and just see what happens,"
Irresponsibility is such a great reassurance. I said, "I guess," before I said that. I am thankful that 'sometimes' and 'I guess' exist for me. Irresponsible qualifiers that do responsible things. I write now with its warming pat in the back. Or maybe more like a hug from behind.

   "I fell in love with the idea of you," and I don't think it's a bad thing at all. How else do you fall in love, anyway? I said, one, in the lack of a better term, and two, with the annoying carefulness that only smells of putrid vagueness, that "there's a tension," and whatnot. What does that even mean, I mean, you are, as Justin Timberlake put it, the best thing that you've never had. That idea, I also loved. "Being in the middle of it sucks though."

   "When you love, you look at the same thing" or in the same direction, or something. I never understood that, it's like rather than looking at each other, you are, similar, similar- "I think love for me is looking at each other." And if you look closely enough, you can opt to see yourself in the other person's eyes. 'I am a selfish, lonely person.' I type quicker than I think, fortunately, the keyboard does the thinking for me. I like that idea.

   I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, and I hope, that you, don't mind. I text my mother good night, 1 AM here. I decided to indulge on a cup of tea that is going to keep me awake for no good reason. Just please let me go, chemicals, chemicals just let me go out. Every emotional upshift I feel, I quickly ascribe it to some neurotransmitters. Fuck them, and fuck them for letting me understand things that I wish I hadn't. Fuck me for knowing nothing but myelin sheaths.

   Chips crack in half, with my teeth in my mouth, and I flush it with a gulp of beer. So many things in my mouth. Be sneaky about it, barley drink. Be sneaky about it. Spending minutes and hours writing this, I wonder if a sleep will be a period, or will this be new paragraph or something, one-inch margins. Will this beer iron things out, or heat things up. I guess irons do both.

   'haha thanks. i dont want anyone to turn around for me though. too much responsibility. im doing pretty well with the nice beers i got. no need to sooth me. everyones one in a trillion for someone' 'stop pretending like youre a humble creature' 'what can i do if i am one?' "Just deal with me," I had said. Just how ironic are the physical distances, coexistences, unbridgeable mental gulfs? Irresponsibility.

   There's a lot of things that make you feel better. After the drum beats though, after the electric waves of sounds though, I am back at it though. Behind me is a nice cushion, and under me is a nice carpeted floor that supports my bum, but it doesn't sit right. I don't sit right. Notice me, things, things, notice me. Distract me from this freak.

   'I wish I have clarity and purpose, rationale in everything that I do. How efficient would I be?' I had thought. As I write something headless and tailless, and decide to press 'publish' to no one's liking, or understanding. Hey, the sun will rise soon.

What's not a distraction?


Enjoy responsibly,
Michael

June 3rd


    Let me try to put one thing dirty dry. I like her, but I forgot why. It started to get annoying when it started to hurt and interfere with me being with her in good terms, whatever they are. Hence I have been telling myself not to like her, seeing why it would be a dumb thing to like her, logistically and personally. She has a boyfriend, we live far away from each other, she has never been romantically interested in me, she is just not for me as I can see. I don't want to like her and I see no reason why I would, but I do. This is all an attempt to let go, but it's more a distraction than an attempt. Now that we have gotten that out of the way, here are the more tacky words.

    "People go into a relationship with an expectation for it. I don't do that." Both she and her cigarette knew that it was the perfect time for another drag. The purple line came faster than usual. It wasn't that cold out, so I guess that may have been easier. The time was late and rude as usual, probably around ten, although I have no idea what it actually was.
    Across the couple that were kissing in the corner seats, we started to talk about things or more so thoughts. We were good at just sort of, opening our minds and letting thoughts flow out  to each other. "I love how everything is like a movie in Chicago. It's like I'm constantly in a movie." It was more the fact that I was with her than the city itself that helped do that. It was more the fact that she did that to the city.
    But I didn't really think that through. Didn't really moderate anything. I just talked as it seemed to fit my character in the script. "Well, this is sort of sad," "Pensive, I think." Yeah, you're right. I knew that the night will be a pensive one.
    However it was that the day and the years before that have been leading up to, I did not know and did not care. It was going to happen.

    Back in the room, I was half lying in bed, knees bent with feet on the floor, but my torso laying on top of the blanket I was too lazy to throw on top of me. I was listening to a jam recorded by my good friends, while drunkenly writing on my arms with a blue pen that worked remarkably well. I was drunk, finally a little oblivious, fortunately incapable of holding onto the thread of my thoughts, and enjoying the free drawing on my arm.
    "What?" I took off my earphones.
    "You're a mess."
    "Haha," I laughed inadequately. 'that's the most hurtful thing that I have heard in a while,' I thought, and perhaps even wanted to say it out of spite. I was, as she knew fully well, a little heartbroken, particularly pensive. We just had a beautiful talk under the peaceful trees and wondrous skies. My lame, childish and unclear utterances about a tacky, sticky topic annoyed both of us, but it was such a nice Summer night that I could not even feel bad. The gentlest breeze wouldn't allow that to happen. It was so annoying. "Can we not talk about annoyance? It's annoying," she had said.
    Yes, I still liked you and I do not want to, not for you, but for me. Yes, I understand now how delusional I was, and how really, there is no chance, and I am starting to think that there shouldn't be a chance as well. It's the beginning to the end. It was rough, and it was true, and it was irresponsible but I would even venture to say that it was inevitable. I mean, maybe she was peeved anyway.
    Back in the room, it was not cozy enough to wash away the stickiness. Ugh, everything sits uncomfortably in my eyes, ears, skin, and my mind. The air wasn't dense. It was definitely unbearable though. It was one of those nights you would not fall asleep. One of those nights you were completely stuck in yourself. So I drank and half-assedly wrote. She scrolled through Facebook and then played sudoku on her iPhone. We probably couldn't deal with each other, but was stuck in a room together. There was no way to sleep, nor a way to communicate. We just had to ignore each other.
    Then that broke when I took out my earphones to hear what she said.
    "You're mean," is all that I mustered up to mumble in response. Because I am the uselessly careful guy who rambles in his head: what would that do, how would that help, and do I even mean it anyway? Then I flip it around, thinking, she has something right, it's a little slap in the face I need, I should take it, I should swallow it, hold it in. True, I probably was being annoying, obnoxious, selfish, tacky and not tactful. I was helpless though.
    I always put things into perspective as such. Doing that requires stepping back, going into the next layer, perceiving the current state into a part, not just experiencing as the entirety. Then you go far away enough that you lose sight of yourself.
    I put back on my earphones. I was shaken to clarity of the situation, but to find only the shaken up dust. Maybe I twitched. Maybe I didn't. I don't remember. I just listened to the next song that was playing already. The only thing I knew for sure was that it hurt. See I was right. You would hurt.

    I think I fell asleep around 4 AM, writing on myself. But I woke up around 10 AM. Not because I felt refreshed already. I just couldn't bare to sleep. I was so thankful to find the refilled bottle of water I left for myself before I went to sleep on the window sill by my head.
    All I could do is pack up lazily, because I had to move out, as she had to start doing things like moving out and catching up with seniors. I didn't mind this, but I didn't know when I should go out, how, and then do what. I had no idea what her plans were. I didn't want to stay too long, because I don't think she wanted me there anymore. I was a bulk of sorts. Not necessarily despised, but you know, just in the corner of her eyes. But if I left, I was going to stay in Evanston, which was something, again, less desired by her and just, it wasn't well-scheduled or timed. There really was no good way out. In the mildly hungover morning, I was still stuck. "Would a sleep be a period?" I skeptically had asked. It wasn't.
    "I'm meeting a person at 12:30, so you can leave whenever." Okay! Then, "Hey, do you want to leave? I am leaving soon, and I am changing and everything, so it's a little weird." Sure. Technically we've done that for three days, but I guess this time around it's indeed a little weird. I muttered some awkward thank you. What a grimy good-bye, see-you-later. But I know that she doesn't care about what she said because she didn't mean anything in particular. She also knows that I am not going to complain or grumble, that I will be fine.
    That I don't mind. I decided not to mind as I walked down the stairs.

    Out in the dashingly beautiful sun, I realized that with a tee shirt on, all my illegible writings on my arm were visible.


At a stranger café,
Michael

June 4th


"So, one of my friends said that there are two types of photographers. One he calls it the businessman, and the other an artist. The businessman does it to share, to see that people like it, to meet the demand or the expectation. The artist, on the other hand, just purely does it for his own joy."

"In that sense, I think I would be the artist. I don't upload my photos. I just enjoy taking them." Because it's like a little puzzle to see something neat, and try to make it look neat with a limited tool, an effortless attempt. It's simple, and it's fun.


"You're a dreamer." "Really?" "I mean, I guess you're too practical to be a dreamer." "Yeah." It was maybe the threaded ankle bracelet I had on that I picked up by the lake the other day. It was maybe the baggy shorts that I made from an old, long cargo pants. It was maybe the camera I had in my hands. It was maybe because I was a little hungover. It was maybe because I was sitting on the sand by the lake shamelessly, and was not bothered by the sand all over my feet. It was definitely just an image. I think I try, though.

"The phrase 'I would love to be' encapsulates who you are very well," she then said. I am a practical dreamer of sorts. "I wouldn't say that you are happy. You are content." I pursue a lot of things aimlessly and half-assedly. She also once said, "I imagine you to be a light in the shallow sea. (It sounds bad but imagine it, you'll get it)." "You analyze everything, not to deeply, but everything." I was happy with that. Content, too.


I am never interested enough to be rigorous. I love beauty but I'd much rather be messy if it's going to be too much work. There's no point. I love photography but am not infatuated enough to pour my time into it. I love writing but rarely do I edit them to some sort of perfection. I love to hoard everything that I ever owned with smart reasons why I should keep them, but I never look back or cherish any of them. It just doesn't matter practically, or maybe I am just content with whatever it is. I am a relaxed person, who loves to be troubled, but hates troubles.

I am also an irresponsible person, and this is an irresponsible pursuit for self-indulgence and self-understanding and self-celebration. I try, half-assedly.


Dreaming in Chicago,
Michael