I don’t know how we become important to each other- what that means. It seems as unknowable as the scope of all of time and the star matter we carry in our core, under the Doritos and the irony and the information. What is your wall made of? Is it a file cabinet, full of reasons and journal entries from a younger, salty, tear washed face? Built of shoving hands, of people, of instinct, or fear? Of your Levi’s, plaid, clothesline hanging and slapping and snapping in the breeze, obscuring your naked, shivering body and beating heart? Are you protected by a mosh pit of frenzied modern anxiety, bright touchscreens and feeds, streaming and updated until all you need to show is a sentence and your good side? No freckles and frizz, no double chins, rolling with good humor and the seasons. No seasons in our immortal pixelated hologram, only taut blank stares and exaggerated sunshine in January. We look into cameras more than each other’s eyes, and our words are emaciated and tremble in fear of being immortalized or ignored.

My wall is made of jokes, of books and music and the things I can name. I can’t name what’s inside me. It’s made of stuff I felt when I wore bright bike shorts, and my bangs stuck straight from my head like a baseball hat, and I skinned my knee and lied about finishing my dinner. It’s made of times before I knew most people I know now, and all the stuff that makes up me can’t be qualified or quantified and that means I don’t know if I even like it.

We photograph alcoholism, eating disorders, drug addictions, social anxiety, in hopes of finding company. And in that, create it. We filter our faces and hide their truth, no smile (funny teeth), head up (bad hair), stomach sucked in, shoulders back, legs crossed, lips pouted. We aren’t even people anymore, diverse and silly and frantically living as though on the precipice of the eternal. We are captured by a game with no end or winner or meaning, other than the familiar and unnamed fear of being left alone. We accept the paper thin surface of a person rather than expose the fathomless depths of ourselves, out of terror that these wafers of friends will disappear in that darkness, not enough to handle the too much of ourselves.

I am not satisfied.

I am sad.

And I trust that sadness.

I trust the feeling in my dirty, human gut that tells me I am poisoned by the thousands of conversations that skate over our humanity.

Have we met?
Several times.
Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot.

Do we know too many people, and in that, no one?

I want to sit with you. I want to sit with you, and tell you all the things I do, and hear all the things you have done.

It won’t be nice. Maybe I won’t like you. Maybe we’ll have nothing to say. I could not be very funny to you. You could like me more than I like you. I could love you and you could only think I’m OK.
I’m starting to think that I am not sad because I don’t have friends, but because I don’t let my friends know me.

I’m scared of you. I’m sorry that I am.

Your profile picture looks great.

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