well, in cosmic terms, some girl in my english class says.
and well, in cosmic terms, we are. we are? we are not. we look up at the night sky and only see patterns and look, there’s that star and that planet they have names and shit and we live on one of those things, a planet, don’t we? we live, don’t we? everything has a name and everything is numbered and everything orbits just so and everything is yes, yes, that is what tolstoy meant in that scene, absolutely, yes, you are so so right. i want to die a dramatic, dramatic death, cosmic proportions. but no. we are still here. living. pressing and flailing and seeking and repeating ourselves. i can’t see the moon from my window, the walls are too high. what does anyone know?
my roommate talks loudly because she wants people to notice her. when we walk together down the streets, she makes it a point to walk slightly ahead of me. darling, i want to tell her, no one notices me anyway, i’m 4’11. and if i did tell her, she will nod, and say, yes yes you are right, because she secretly despises me anyway. she’s been my best friend since elementary school.
you know, i think everyone should take an econ class, it’s practical, my other roommate said to me this morning. practical. she tells me about 401k’s too. practical practical didactical are we? try to be tactical too, darling. i don’t make sense and i don’t know economics but i look up at the sky and make up words.
darling is another word for ‘fuck you’, sometimes.
mais c’est trop, trop facile. personne? non? c’est la dernière phrase! on comprend que son destin n’est pas fixé dans l’éternité. my french teacher tries to teach us about feminism today. the only people who have tried to teach me about feminism have been men. oh, how beautiful. the last sentence! c’est la dernière phrase!
you didn’t sit next to me today, though i saved you a seat. you changed, a little. it probably happened at night when you were staring at the ceiling and you thought you were asleep and you thought you were just having a dull dream because oh, dreams these days. nothing is as bizarrely beautiful as the past. we’re 19 fucking years old, but we want the last sentence. some pretty girl sat next to me instead and she chewed on her wooden pencils.
i am thinking about my last sentence, thinking about my 401k—in cosmic terms, and i will write on cheap paper with wooden pencils more so i can feel like i’m anchored to something, tied down, my rope around humanity, yes mine. darling darling darling, i am editing my subconscious putting in commas because that is a human thing to do, i don’t know anything, anything, mais ça fait passer le temps.
