Let's All Perform Together

So by watching a Netflix show about an author named Joan Didion, I walked to my room to grab my laptop and turned on my computer after sitting on the couch, and started writing what I could, desperately. Because, in any week I could die. (Side note: By the time I write this, many would've already seen the funniest memes about WW3)

My back constantly aches when it knows I’m focused, optimistic, and ready to start a change in my daily life; my stomach grows nauseous, and half of my brain wants to live for a while.

I could rest, satisfied, knowing that what would be left are painful memories and confusing writings about thoughts, ideas, and feelings about my existence. Complicated as I attempt, I perform in-depth as much as possible to add to my narratives.

Usually, in the day (which is rare to feel good, resting on the couch, wishing my life were different), the warm air would increase half of my energy, causing my forehead and nose to become oily. I wouldn’t mind this if only, instead of watching episode after episode of ‘Friends’, I could be writing dozens of pages in my notebook and wording things like pain, depression, sexuality, or being jobless.

It is 1:06 in the morning - already my stomach is getting achy and bloated, the exact second I picked up my notebook to track what I wrote this week. In this prompt, I wrote about my feelings for the day: I’m 20 years old and still could find patience to sit still, and worry; I’m aware, though, that many adults do crave this stillness. And now I want to write how my knees hurt, but that would be pushing it, (notice I enjoy framing my stuff as an old man - maybe an old woman whose husband wants to commit suicide, ha ha).

My belly feels more plump, which makes sense since I haven’t been exercising that part; working out on my back and chest, and using my arms to warm up before the curls, I believe my belly naturally starts feeling flat. Of course, thinking about it decreases my confidence and now I start worrying about libido, manhood, all that crazy boyish stuff. I wouldn’t mind a plump belly if only my legs were thicker.

This is a mess. Now I'm reading this over and over.

We could try writing something positive, I say, like miracles, maybe about how god saved me to sound americanish just for a little bit; maybe how to better yourself entering a gym, paying memberships and having better sex with older men - add the ‘older men’ as a twist at the end. Or, tell a funny truth why gym memberships are only for the sex addicts, or sexually frustrated boys and girls.

Unless they want honesty, then I’m just naturally not sure what social media can do for me, posting these journals like it's The New Yorker or a Wattpad fanfic. So many are already trying to be honest, that performing is already being honest. “Let's post about how women are always acting like victims of peeping-toms,” I think, then I want to kill myself again for thinking so. Finally, I think again, I'm human.

Now this shouldn’t be embarrassing to write, should it? - It’s annoying, isn’t it? Saying, over and over, how humble I could be if only this, or this could be.

I always have a sick desire to share with people, even if some want less sharing from others.

Let's take this I wrote right now about happiness: If I ran some charity - since I’ve been seeing more and more young people trying to spread goodness as much as they can - If I ran some charity, like giving to palestine or new mexico hospitals - dear god, even then, I still wouldn’t be writing anything about it. Then I could express how guilty I felt.

It would be like, for example, in court for murder, pedophilia (I have POCD), robbery, arson, or drugs - looking back how I wrote what I did to help others, giving back to the community, throughout my life that would be the most embarrassing and most haunting thing on my part. And, like a coward, I would gladly hang myself or decapitate my head.

I should be happy though, grateful, I say lazily to myself, right?

Jesus, none of this is making sense… The best way to describe what this actually means is: “I’m afraid to believe happiness is the one/only goal in life, that I just wouldn’t be able to afford reality catching me in the mud I mistaken for sweet chocolate.”

Doesn't it sound silly now? The only excuse I could give is that I’m under 21. So, I could act over-complicated as much as I want.

I’m unsure if I’m surviving like everybody else, or becoming the one enemy for everyone else as I develop - both sound terrifying to me, though.

Thus, in respect, I wouldn’t have to worry about being honest anymore if I did end up cornered by everything, even by my own family. Let's start this month off good, I say.

World War 3, I hear on my phone. Now, I'm ready to die again; wonderfully I have something to write too: My favorite circle of identity conflict, death, and performance could start again. Let's perform more about it, shall we?