A drive in the middle of the night

I waited for you to ask me what I was thinking, so that I could tell you:

“I’m thinking that I cry less and talk more.
That I want to be good at what I do.
That I want to be better, best.
That I want to be able to write better in order to speak better words.

That I want to be loved, lifted up,
so that I can love more.

That I am happy.

That I think more of me
and therefore more of you.

That I love the airstream coming in from the window,
crashing through my hair.

That there is so much that I want, want, want.

That I have become an egoist.
Sometimes.
That I am thereby human.

That I am happy now,
because I am not lonely.
That I am here.
That you are here.
That therefore I can live happiness.

That I like listening to you,
and then try to be you.
To feel like you,
when you try to explain how you feel,
how you think.
To understand you.
To understand me.

That then again it is possible that all that you tell me is not true.
That all is a lie.
But that it doesn’t matter.
That it is beautiful, glorious, improbable.
That it is kitchy,
and that kitch is tender.

That I want to cry more and talk less.

That I want to be atrocious.
That I want to be a witch,
so that I can bewitch you,
and make you read and read further,
so that you can sense me, live me.
A witch,
so that I can inoculate a thought into you.
The thought that I am a peculiar human being,
idiosyncratic: even those who we deem normal, are peculiar in their normality.

That I am sad and that sometimes I enjoy being sad.
That I think of others,
and that their grief makes me unhappy.

That I do not want, do not want, do not want.

That I am a paradoxy.
That I am a human being.

I want to drive endlessly, boundlessly;
reflect, feel, live everything in my fantasy:
hate, happiness, tenderness, love, friendship, infinitude,
fame, wealth, lies,
goose bumps.
Live everything in my brain,
whilst the thoughts substantialize,
and wrap themselves around me and touch me.

I have enjoyed it,
and I enjoy it now,
because it has become part of my thoughts,
and will become a fantasy and a dream:
this reality,
this drive in the middle of the night.”