“I do not want to be a person. I want to be unbearable.”

My personal poetry is a failure.
I do not want to be a person.
I want to be unbearable.

— Anne Carson,
from “Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions,” in Decreation

I notice myself changing, metamorphosing, in ways I’m not yet certain I can put a name to. This doesn’t at all mean in a bad way; there’s simply a restlessness within that can’t seem to be muted or silenced. I can’t confront it either, but I feel it. I sense it, like a shadow hovering over my being, lying in wait.

There’s an anxiousness about me lately, one that I’ll readily and openly admit, because as much as I want to move on from school – five more weeks, that’s all I have – the Big Bad is right now, simply a question mark. The great unknown, I guess you could call it that; I don’t know what to call it. The term unemployed keeps hanging above my head, even though I keep reminding myself it’s a deliberate decision to take some time off.

Right now – I’m using this term a lot tonight, aren’t I? – my heart feels like it’s about to burst. I realized that I don’t have a lot of friends here. Conversations are often fleeting and no one seems to bother to commit names and faces to memory. There is this class I’m enrolled in this quarter, it meets once a week on Thursday evenings and so far, I’ve had to supply them my name each week. Why is it so hard to remember one more person in your long list of acquaintances and people you don’t care about?

I’ve gone too long without intimate, honest communication.

There’s so much I want to say – these stories lie in wait inside of me, bursting at the seams and yet unable to be unleashed because… there is no one to listen to them. There is no one to respond to them. I think I miss good company. I miss being in the company of people who love me for the person that I am, and vice versa. I miss being in the company of friends who listen to me not with their ears, but their hearts.

I miss feeling like myself, all of myself, in the company of others.

I miss being remembered.


“You tell yourself that you’re not lonely,
you tell yourself that you’re just fine
and yet,

You find yourself clinging to the legs of a kitchen table
like a child, hiding beneath a tablecloth like you once did
in the folds of your mother’s red dress

You find yourself trying to adjust the arms of your chair,
trying to move them this way and that but they can never
hug you tight enough

You find yourself falling apart in the hands of a clock
at midnight but these hands keep moving and you
can never catch up

You find yourself on your knees at the mouth of a river,
gulping handfuls of dirty water as if this is your oasis
and you cannot stop drinking

You tell yourself that you’re not lonely
and yet, and yet”

— Kelsey Danielle, Recreating the Body


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