Time and again I find myself choosing between passion and reception. I never seem to hold onto both at the same time for very long. It’s one or the other. When I’m the most accessible is when I’m the most easily ignored. Conversely, when I’m unable to connect with others is when I have the most to say.
The words come to me in the cold disconnectedness like an ineffective moth drawn to the light on the other side of the window, batting their wings in place. A verbal holding pattern of a kind. I used to hold onto them like I was stockpiling ammunition, notes on my phone filled with silver bullets to slay silent beasts whenever I got around to finally connecting with them again. But actual conversations are becoming brittle, fewer and further between, so much so that the stockpile accelerated its own uselessness. I found myself tossing valuable gems away into unanswered text messages, mindlessly adorning social media outlets with their fleeting glimmers, and just straight up brain-dumping them into dreams. I put it everywhere but my art because I wanted to feel personally connected. I already know it’s real. I didn’t need to confirm it for myself. I just wanted to see how it fit into someone else’s kaleidoscope, what it looked like as it rotated behind their eyes.
I get why you wouldn’t want to tap into my heart’s wifi. The name is inappropriate and passwords can be annoying to remember. It also spans quite a large radius and lots of people are already connected. It isn’t outlandish if they assume I’m either harvesting data or am just tending to way too many connections at once for reliable internet to be possible. Nobody likes to read the terms and conditions, not even in such a beautiful place as this. You’re probably just playing it safe. I get it. You’re wrong, but I get it.
I want to live in front of you, around you and with you, but what’s the point if you’re not even looking? You couldn’t see me if you were seeing me steady for months. Not even if we travel together or meet each other’s family and close friends or suck each other’s naughty parts. You can’t see anyone in airplane mode. And no one can see you---which I realize is probably the point when I read this out loud. But that lack of reciprocation is starting to stifle me in ways COVID-19 never could. I normally keep myself open as a display of vigilance and self-embrace, a ubiquitous living gallery of passion and creativity at a human museum made accessible for whoever to inspect for authenticity if not for the artistry itself. But now I don’t want to answer my phone anymore. I don’t want to respond to text messages. I don’t feel like reading my emails. I especially don’t care to like/share posts to affirm my loyalty to anything. The reviews mean as little to me as the guests who aren’t looking.
I decided to stop making plans for a while and just let Jesus or Ganesha or Barry Biffle take the wheel so I can space out in the passenger seat. Besides, haters can’t know my next move if I don’t either!
Also, I decided I’m never falling in love again, so there’s that. Maybe I’ll soar majestically into love and land softly onto love’s runway. Maybe I’ll lay down and make snow angels on love’s front lawn until I’m completely snowed in. Maybe I’ll just contend with friendly portions of lust until my phone vibrates with a different kind of passion. In any case, I’m finished with falling.
