#esseisms

text under cut

i smile. the car is parked wistfully under the sun. i can still picture it driving on neck-hot asphalt, tires dipping in potholes from heat cracks. the cake is melting in the back seat.

three boys are huddled around that cake, trying their best not to push their luck and worsen its condition by slamming their steamy, sweaty weight into it when the car makes a sharp turn.

the driver only looks straight at the road, occasionally cranks up the volume. today's glorious passenger princess - the girliest of princesses, and that, you have to battle the princessest of boys, the one in the backseat, threatening to eat the damn cake every five minutes or so - keeps checking their phone nervously. they were instructed to keep the birthday kid entertained through whatever means accessible. and fuck, that was hard, since the princessest of boys people pleaser was busy body-fighting their backseat passenger nemesis, and he usually does the entertaining.

when they arrive, the cake looks even more miserable than my honest life. it's not much, but it's still worth more than the humble cupcake with a cheap candle burrowed into it that i had 3 years ago, still in college.

i wish i had stayed there, forever.

two out of five visitors have their noises bleeding - from body-fighting. i know basic medical help, but I don't offer any. they slam their way into my apartment while the other three help carry the misery cake, search for some medicine. they only find the five pounds worth of paracetamol i had stolen home back when i was a pharmacist.

we eat cake. only one out of our six collective noses still drips blood on the plate. he denies any tissue and dips their forkful of cake into the little pool of blood.

someone groans in disgust.

i smile. the car is parked wistfully under the sun.

when i wake up, there's a cupcake with a cheap candle burrowed into it. a note reads: happy birthday, dude!

i cut the cake in half, and the jam is thick and caked, like leftover blood.

from afar, i hear your always-lopsided, unsteady voice. when you're excited, milky ways of thoughts spill past your lips carelessly.

we're building stupid houses in stupid blocky videogames and someone keeps rattling on about color palettes and machine schemes in the background, easily overlapped by the sound of your voice

come on and sing it with me!

fondness melts into something soft down my throat. i don't have to joke to keep it comfortable.

i've never been the best builder, but i stay around your voice chat radius anyway. organise pixelated icons of internet resources in unreal chests. you all keep it real. when i hand my friend whatever wood logs he asked for, i hide my smile behind my player avatar. the interaction is miniscule, but we always keep it real

is there anything that's worth more?

you ask if i think kilobyte daisies would look great as a potted plant.

is there anything that's worth more?

when i shut down the dim light of my computer, there is dark ink outside the window. i crawl into my bed with contentment... contentment, that's what it is. my phone is buzzless, because everyone said goodnight in time.

i drift off to sleep, and it's peace and love on the planet earth tonight

consider this:

you're stuck in a parasocial relationship with yourself, where you imagine each of your actions provide some kind of impact on your character, but in reality, you're terribly disconnected to such a point that

there is a council of big and scary dogs inside, that circled and circled you until they formed a table,

and when they sit at it, they bark:

to such a point that,

"you're deemed irrelevant."

they doubt you, and it's not a fight you can win.

the walls of the fabled building, taped in threats, stand taller than you. so stupid. so awfully isolated!,

no one can come in, so no one'll leave. a marvel! come sit at my tea party,

it's just the two of us in my head. you sit across from me, cross-legged, or maybe you stand. or maybe you're not there at all. but i know you're somewhere

it's quiet, most of the time.

you're quiet, most of the time.

i don't remember where it began or how it ended. i just know that there's this shutterbug in my brain, rewiring my psyche. don't remember the last time i was alone, not just felt like it. circumference my existence.

shut up, this is my memoir, not ours!

... sorry. i wish there were things that're just you or me. not the collective hivemind of our bragging. so that at least something would feel unique and identifiable. instead, we're racing each other's interests like formula 1.

i wish i had infinite capabilities. i wish you were my friend,

in place of an unlucky roommate that argues with the communals and makes prejudiced statements online (which would've been you anyway. if you had free will, you know? we're tied to each other with the intimacy of our mortality.)

toy rookie with limited time. undisclosed family presence. who are we, rocking against each other? for you to have my back implies turning away. and i want to look at you.

the sky turns a shade of dirty ditch romance. you hate this color. i hate this color, too. your influence or my choice?