When I wake, I see the tweets I shouldn’t have sent the night before; they make me look weak, but I’m not, or at least I don’t want anyone to think of me as such. I’ll see the photos eventually—"I don’t remember taking these.” I’ll see the notes eventually—I mostly remember scrivening those. One in particular I’ll abridge yet elaborate, for it’s actual manner of phrase is overly caliginous. To quote myself, imbibed and not wholly of sound mind; "If not, it'll die in her iPhone with her, and when'd she start speaking in the third person?"
“What are you thinking about?” I’m asked by the girl with sparkling eyes that knows mostly that I probably won't say...
The dead strand of lights out back and incurable tweak in my neck, the light gone from just one string of bulbs, illuminated in her eyes, (I envy this,) escalating tension in my back and shoulders.
I’m staring off, thinking of only that, tossing back my flask, wondering why she asked and why I’d end up saying, “wouldn’t you like to know?"
No one here knows me for more than a familiar face, an embarrassing mess most nights. I’m being quiet, I have so much to say, but no one would understand. No one here knows me.
I drive to work and think about the ways in which I’m ruining my own mood—for over-analyzing every conversation, look, gesture, that was most likely innocent and misunderstood. I constantly preach not to idle on self consciousness, ("fuck what they think! you’re perfect, and if they can’t see that…)—my duplicity clearly wears me out.
At work they call me sunshine, say good morning. “Good mawnin’,” I smile, illuminating the illusion that I actually am spreading rays of warm light in the cold atmosphere. I think I make them happy. Crouched down to fill the coffee carafe to the 12 line at the slow, trickling water cooler, they say, "thanks, Cass." I consume about half the pot on my own, usually make a second half-batch if I don’t pick up a diet Coke or Monster on my lunch run.
Attempting to be eternal sunshine exhausts me, and I can’t do it on these cloudy mornings, let alone smolder all night. Consequently, I’m not the cheery little lass I once was. My flame's burning out, I need to be where it’s warm, or with someone who warms me. I think people try, but it’s not enough. I’m scared I’ll suck the life from them. I don’t want good company if I’ll destroy it.
I keep my phone on airplane mode—every notification I see makes me feel so sad, even if it’s the sweetest text message in the world or a "like" on a photo from a sincere soul.
The note ends, "I'm sobbing in someone's room (who doesn't know me,) listening to some song (everyone knows,) when my girls ask if I'm okay, and what do I say? Yep. I'm good. Typical. I'm the driver." (Do they know I was crying? Did that even happen?) I don't remember crying, and I sure as hell hope no one else does. Reflection only amuses me anymore when it's horizontal, and I haven’t seen it that way for weeks.
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