I saw a figure from a distance and thought it was me. I drank from the opposite side of a glass. If you can’t describe how you feel to yourself, you can’t be sure what you’re feeling, or that you feel at all. Consciousness as unreliable narrator. I spoke with conviction; my friend called it “trolling.” The self is a play that you watch from the audience – you affect it, but you can’t control it.
Men say infuriating things, and the fury has nowhere to go. The fury becomes ingrown. Your personality is a choice, so why are you half little-girl and unlike yourself? You don’t change, exactly, but the wave amplifies. The world is your ulcer. Love turns blood-brown. Be careful what you say, in that it tells you what you think.