The Wrong Choice

She knew it was the wrong decision. Before she even made the decision she knew it was the wrong choice. But she couldn’t help herself. If she didn’t go she would be haunted by what ifs. She knew exactly what would happen if she stayed. She would get a day job, work her evenings at the theatre, become even closer with her newfound group of friends. But this was a new opportunity. Move to New York City, a place she longed to be for most of her life, work on this show, which she was dying to be a part of. How could she turn it down? How could she say no? She knew if offered the job she would take it. She had to. She also knew this was the wrong decision.
Here, she know no one. She’s never been good at making friends. It’s a miracle she found two really good ones just before she left. But now they are half a country away. She is alone. She has always been alone, her whole life, but she is even more alone now that she had spent the past six months not alone. The absence of people that understand her is striking. The city is cold. The city is dirty. The city is full of people, but she is all alone. She knew this was the wrong decision. But how could she say no.

The Wrong Choice

Jam on Toast

The girl sits at the counter, lightly chatting with the girl next to her who is spreading jam on her toast. They are from two different countries, two different backgrounds, yet somehow their life decisions have led them here to this moment.
Connecting.
They talk about light things, such as tea preferences, as well as slightly more in depth topics, such as why the first is vegetarian and an in a nutshell run down of her basic philosophy. Ultimately it doesn’t matter specifically what was discussed, but the feelings that they expressed and experienced.
Connecting.
That feeling that is at the core of all language and communication., the desire to be understood and to understand other people. No matter how it begins, all anyone wants is for their voice to be heard, for what they are saying to matter, to not just be hurtling through space alone yelling into a deaf void. We want to connect and be understood. Everything the girl does is an effort to find a kindred spirit.
Connecting.

Jam on Toast

Subtext is Everything

The girl sends the message. On the surface she is discussing books vs. their movies. But this is just words. They mean nothing. We have so much in common! One text really says. Omg we are so alike! We are like the same person! This girl, who spent most of her life never truly connecting to anyone has met her duplicate. They don’t agree on everything and they like different things, but their thought processes are incredibly similar, around the 95% zone. One look and one knows how the other will react. This is an amazing comfort. She is not truly alone. Yet at the same time it is incredibly innerving. Maybe she is wrong. Maybe she doesn’t know this other person that well. She is terrified that one day the other girl will scream
YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME BUT YOU DON’T
She can never be sure. She cautions herself against assumin she knows the other girl. Yet her texts scream
ACKNOWLEDGE HOW SIMILAR WE ARE
AGREE WITH ME
RECOGNIZE ME
KNOW ME
LOVE ME
LOVE ME
LOVE ME

Subtext is Everything

Overload

She finds comfort in labels. She thinks the more she defines herself the easier it is to understand herself. She is fixated on understanding. Her mind is constantly pulling in information and trying to make sense of it. She needs to learn how to sift through all of the subtle cues constantly bombarding her psyche. Is she over-analyzing, assigning meaning where there is none? Or is she seeing social cues others are blind to? She can never tell if she is observing reality as it is or if she is projecting and creating her own reality regardless of the objective truth. It is a never ending cycle of questioning reality, questioning how well she truly knows anyone. Some times it is too much, she has so much unconscious stimulus pouring in she overloads. She searches for ways to shut down, tune out, make her world make sense again. Can she ever know reality, or is she only projecting?

Overload

On the Fringes

She sits. Desperately trying to feel connected to someone. Anyone. She sits on the fringe of the main atrium at Grand Central Station. There are people walking all over. There are people sitting along the fringe, similar to her. She sits, trying to soak up the waves of energy that flow through the space. But she cannot seem to connect. She cannot plug in. She can’t. She is isolated. She is isolated in her own mind. In her won body. She longs to be a part of something. She longs to be absorbed by the energy. She longs to be pure energy and light. She longs not to feel so alone. She knows there are people that love her and cherish her. But she cannot feel it here. It is not enough. She’s too distant. Everything is chaos. She just wants to dissolve into nothingness. Life is hard and terrible and shitty and so fucking amazing she doesn’t know how to handle any of it. So she sits. In Grand Central Station. Watching. Wishing. Reaching. Imagining.

On the Fringes

Mirror of Water

The girl, calling herself this because she doesn’t feel like an adult, sits on the hard tile. This woman, who knows she is a woman but hates that this word has to come from the word man, stares at the multitude of people walking by. She chooses the word multitude because it sounds nice, phonetically it gives her a small joy. This person, who prefers person to woman because she feels it better represents the baseness of all people, enjoys being a part of the crowd, enjoys watching others , enjoys partaking in tiny slices of their lives, enjoys validating their lives by observing, enjoys knowing that she is not alone. That other people exits. That other minds exist. That other worlds exits. She just wants to be a part of something.

Mirror of Water