Mostly, I am made of nothing. There is a part in life when you realize that, ultimately, you have failed and what you’re doing has no point. Religion, ambition–those things matter. But I was standing alone and thinking this and people were streaming past me, and I didn’t see where the mattering came into contact with the being. I was young then, as I am now, and it was six months before the end of everything for me.
The nice thing about fiction is that there is a guaranteed ending, and there is the guaranteed comfort of no free will. What you are doing has to have a purpose because somebody wrote it to have a purpose. When I was standing there I thought of this too, and I wrote it down on my skin because my notebook was back in my apartment. I only had one earbud in: I was listening to foreign rock music, and it cut in and out of the public voices, like the people around me somehow mattered to me on the same level that my music did.
You don’t know what will happen to me in six months. You don’t know what my end of everything will be. You only know that I was a strange girl standing at a lamppost writing something on my skin. If you were one of the people streaming past me, you would maybe know my hair color and my eye-color and the way I had two scarves wrapped around my neck. Since you are reading this, you know that I am pretentious, and have meaningless and meaningful thoughts in my head, and if I play my cards right I could one day be famous for writing down shit like this.
I am writing this like it is retrospect but in some way it really isn’t. I don’t know if the six months have passed yet. I don’t know what I am waiting for. That part of myself, that girl, she is the fundamental thing in me that will follow me into the marriage-bed and the nursing home and then the grave.
I am still waiting to see what part of this mattered; I am still waiting to see why my youth cut me out of contact with everything. I think, now, I will be alone forever.