Synecdoche

Lately, I find myself to be subject to criticism, laughable at the very least. It wasn’t difficult falling asleep yesterday night after all that talking, where I spoke, I also laughed at how easily I had let those words escape me, subsequently building inconsistencies to my reality, as if reality is consistent to begin with. Where his response to such quotidian, overly and tirelessly repeated phrases were, ‘I hope you will find the answers you are looking for’, to which I also laughed at because of how each word fell flat, and they hurt me even more. The weekend is cruel, I said. It harbours a tepid sense of anonymity because of how we consistently try to remain hidden in a way that we want to be seen. I don’t understand, he said. So I stopped talking for awhile. Maybe one minute, which could seem like eternity when you’re lying next to an entity you are unable to cogently define. What are you thinking about? 

Then I can’t remember. I tamper each memory, each ‘initial’ feeling; extrapolating meanings from isolated gestures. My thoughts increasingly and aggressively syncopated within the futile efforts to stabilize meaning. Waking up, I once again become conscious of time and therefore the agonizing sensation that is latched onto the action of waiting. The worse part is that, I do not know what in fact, I am waiting for. For him to wake up, or for me to leave. So I went back to sleep.

Then is it nothing for you to be someone’s festivity?

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