
I want to fall apart spectacularly. I want to set fires and smash clocks and share the apocalypse with someone beautiful and scarred who needs me more than water. I want to hear the language of shooting stars. I want to become more than a product of social conduct, self-discipline, distractions and obligations. No matter how hard I grip the pages or how loudly I read the text I can never force my figure to dissolve into fiction. There will always be the cold hard reality of nights spent counting the endless field of bathroom tile. There will always be the equilibrium of life spent as a balanced checkbook. There will always be the protocol of relationship rules and guidelines and breakups. There will always be the restraining order that keeps me 100 million miles from an existence that runs farther and faster away from me. I cannot excavate myself from the feeling that I do not belong in this world.