found this in an old(er) notebook. it did regress into second person about eight sentences in, but i accidentally deleted most of it while i was typing (i'm excellent like that) and decided fuck it, i'll write it up in first person. it feels a little more poignant in second person, so if you wish to read the original, something can be arranged, but i doubt anyone actually cares that much. (it's okay; i don't really, either.)
I am full of something I don't know, something I am trying to discover. I'm practically frantic. Something is pushing, pushing, and finally pull. I have no grip. Everything is falling, but it's not a new sensation. Nothing feels new even if I am completely immersed in newness. I have seen it all before. These noises are old news, old ex-friends talking to their joyful new acquaintances on their cell phones as I pass them in the grocery, paying no attention to me as I pass by and attempt to hid my rather embarrassing supply of comic books and fruit juice. They are fleeting. I am fleeting. Everything begins to feel small, much smaller than me and definitely much smaller than the grocery. Suddenly I know decisively what it is to be really, truly alive, and it means nothing to me. It's just another bag of apples to put in my cart, check out, and eat later when my stomach wakes up. Footsteps belong to thousands of people I've never been introduced to, but I already know. I only have to hear their voice to know everything about them, or at least assume I do. They are read like books, they are opened like doors that never did get that lock installed. And this is such a sad thing.