The maddest thing is that I'm writing this
She dragged herself to classes too early this morning, and curled up into inattentive ennui. That's like boredom, but when you're all grown up like she is, you get to call it ennui because it sounds really really cool. She's, you know, one of those people who seem like they're always paying attention, when really she's just rather good at listening at the right moments. She's deceptive like that.
Her mind's itinerant, and she's also gotten rather good at letting it wander while it's baited to the buzzard drone of morning lectures. Her hand's been upgraded to autopilot a long time ago, there'll be a part of her brain dutifully processing intelligent succinct notes while the neighbouring cortex is regarding the scribbled explosion of writing and wondering what the hell it all means.
And between ennui and autopilot, she's thinking that maybe it's time to stop all the madness.
It's mad, she thinks, when she's handwriting something, makes a mistake and is compelled to crumple it up and start fresh. More so, you know, when she's nearly finished an entire two sides of writing and fucks up the last line. It's mad, she thinks, but that's how it all started, isn't it?
It's mad, she thinks, to hate the casual bombardment of the social senses by beautiful perfect people, while wanting so much to look like them that she could never admit it to anyone, much less herself.
It's mad how she's never good enough for herself.
It's mad, how she was so amused by the way he always said "I really, really like you", because sometimes saying "I love you" gets that vital internal organ ripped out and smashed into the ground. She didn't love him, but she listened when he said that, because she really, really liked him too.
And yeah, it's mad too, how she was so pained by the way he always said "You're kinda fat", because sometimes saying "You aren't pretty enough for me" doesn't get the message across. She didn't believe him, but she listened when he said that, because she was really rather stupid.
And it's mad, you know, how she stopped eating and all that.
How psychological becomes force, how force becomes habit, how absurdly quickly habit becomes normal.
It's mad, she thinks, how achievement is so closely tied into perfectionism is so closely tied into eating, or not.
It was mad, she thinks, to crumple up the hours into processed waste(d time) in front of a mirror, gagging from sick loathing at every single inch of what's reflected. It was really, really mad, the way she was to suddenly start thinking that if she was already gagging from sick loathing at herself, she might as well go all the way with it...
But, she thinks, it is maddest of all that this isn't the first time she's realized how mad it all is....
...and somehow can't quite stop doing it, thinking it, feeling it.
She's still trying to convince herself that telling it all in the third person means that it didn't happen. Not to her, anyway.
The mad things people do in lectures!
I won't be posting for a while. Like, a day.