He will never see me in this suit!
What psychotic shit are you writing?
Well-
I'm attempting literary minimalism, I said, but not out loud, not on the phone.
I crossed my legs and listened to her voice. She is scolding me but I hear myself more loudly. Fuck! I can't write. Big dream! Big slap! I CAN'T WRITE. School then work then death? Yes probably.
I have got a problem, I try to tell her. Its, mmhm, I see things more clearly now.
What? (She is listening)
I visualize more than ever. Like, he's breathing.
You've got an imaginary friend?
No! I yelled.
It'll be okay. I have no advice for you. I know you've probably advised yourself a hundred times better.
Yes.
Isn't there anybody else?
Yes.
So?
I don't feel like it. I've come to a point when you know, sometimes you say fuck it but only as an expression? well I really mean it. I truly don't care. I truly fuck it.
You're stubborn.
I've hit rock bottom.
Yes. I did not see this coming. I thought things would patch up or you would turn okay.
It's been five months. I've hit rock bottom. I hardly go to school.
You're mad.
I'm not mad. I've hit rock bottom.
Well, you've got to pull yourself together. I'm worried about you.
I've been trying.
Yes. I can see that's working.
Stop it.
You are just, dead.
ARE YOU LISTENING? I HAVE BEEN TRYING.
Kübler-Ross does not work for everyone. Time has a way of changing things. Some people cry, mourn and get done with it. I don't fit into Some People this time around. Instead of forgetting I begin to remember a lot of things. Small things. Very, very small things. Extremely minuscule details. Like the color of the fluorescent light at the stairs last few months. Or the smell of my soft pink sweater after cooking a special dish. I miss the past but I didn't tell her that.
What's your solution?
(I did not have anything to say. I kept quiet.)
What are you going to do?
I will be okay. Time will heal me.
WHAT IN ANOTHER 20 YEARS?
(I laughed. She has a funny tone. Or her tone seems funny to me.) Look. I don't know how. I have been trying and so far this is how it is. I go out, I hang out, I buy a lot of shit. I get sad attacks at the happiest times surrounded by the happiest bunch alive. How do you suppose--
Go out. Dress up.
I do go out. I do dress up.
You're not trying hard enough.
I try hard enough. Do you think I like being like this?
No, I mean you're not trying hard enough to go out with anybody else.
I don't know how.
Bullshit. You're giving excuses.
I'm not.
(She must have let out a loud sigh)
(I can tell)
I don't know how.
God!
--People will talk.
You can pull off ridiculous stunts but you can't figure out this one simple thing?
It's not simple. I don't know how. Tell me how.
I'm not there. Run your own show. Go fucking out.
That's not a solution.
Don't think it as a solution. It should be a beginning.
I can tell she's exhausted. I am exhausted. I don't know if I'm asking for help or people just assume I need help.
(N.B: This conversation is another shot (ref: paragraph 2, line 3) (but I am not excellent); just in case any twenty people out there thinks I'm losing my mind and writing twisted things like my best friend thinks. The truth does not matter.)
