At least, I think it’s weird. I hope I don’t offend anyone.
There it is again. The intruding thoughts. The little fairy inside my head. My crutch. My muse. The source of all of my narcissism; the source of my power. My true consciousness.
Recently, I’ve been having a hard time finding myself. It likes to take breaks now and then. “Stretch out the legs,” it’ll say. For all I know, it could be cheating on me – running off with someone a little more experienced – someone a little more charismatic. I couldn’t care less if it does, though. I don’t mind a little competition now and then. I don’t mind, but I’m jealous.
“All writers hate other writers.” Is that a thing?
Sure fucking feels like it sometimes. Excuse my language.
Excuse my helicopter parenting, more like. It’s not necessary to have to reassure that every single equation is right, I tell myself. But I do it anyways. I do it more frequently now. It’s like when your family comes over, and you tidy up after yourself a little more, and you hold your thoughts for a little longer. Until you have your privacy back again, you think. Until then, “act your best, please.” You say again. Just making sure.
And you flash a little smile now and then; say a few more words here and there. Nothing deep – just a few more niceties now and then, and a pinch more of the mindless chatter. It’s a fairly rare occasion, right? (Well, I mean, I’m pretty alone most of the time, so this is gonna be pretty biased. (But, you know. People on the internet are usually pretty just as alone .))
You keep this up for a while. You start to get the hang of it; you start to do things of your own volition. Your actual volition. Oh, yes. That mythical “pure altruism” – an unconscious desire to fulfill the needs of others. And in this case, an unconscious desire to appeal to the social needs of your family.
And in my case, an appeal to the needs of my consciousness.
I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to be left alone again. When I stop bothering, my consciousness fades. My drive is removed. I have a hard time staying awake. Only the night. Only past 10pm. That’s how it is with it, and that’s how it is without. Unfortunately, like Pavlov, I’ve been trained to train. I’ve been chained to the schedule of my own prisoner – a guard of my own fleeting attention.
Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
I hope you’ll stay.
Gosh, I’m just like some estranged housewife. He’ll stay for sure, this time. As I finish tucking in the baby, my thoughts trace back to him.
“If only I had another pair of hands to help out around here,” I say, gazing dejectedly at the unwashed dishes. I wipe my hands on my apron unconsciously. They’re still dry.
A knock. Then a ring.
Who is it? I wonder. But I grin. There’s only one person who’ll always forget about the bell.
I open the door. “How many times has it been now?” I ask teasingly, welcoming him into the house once again, knowing damn well how long it’ll be until he leaves.