Herbert Marcuse once said, “That which is cannot be true.”

Reality in itself is antagonistic.

I’m sitting at my desk, tossing side-way glances at my iPhone screen, hoping to see that dark blue bubble with white text pop up, and of course, it’s not.

Normal people are working and not obsessing. This of course, means, I’m not normal.

I used to be.

I also used to wear ripped cardigans held together with safety pins…

To pass the time I begin re-reading text messages, interpreting pauses in correspondence–its brevity or length–and I know it’s making me crazy, but I can’t stop.

So maybe I’ll scribble his name on a piece of loose leaf –putting that out into the universe means it will come back to me, right?

If I get to 100 times, he’ll text me.

The world in which I find myself living must be comprehended, transformed, even subverted in order to become that which really is…

If I really listen to his words and read his texts and just take them at face value–is that truth?

Is that the reality?

Sound waves and a few tiny black pixels on a white background, but nothing more?

I can’t exist in that world.

But I can’t exist in the land of the crazies either…

There has to be a balance.

I just have to put my pen down, shut off my phone, and cut my passion for him off with a butcher knife.

Just. Like. That.

*excerpt from my work in progress, Tiny Tortures…