Feelings best translate to the nightmarish segment of a childhood funhouse, the tunnel right before the end, it revolves in an ongoing circular motion, and through it you scamper like a gerbil in a wheel, attempting to remain upright on your two frantically blinking light-up sneakers, but the omnipotent presence of gravity trumps all. There’s an immense O-shaped beam of sunlight pouring through and perhaps your mother or friends or somebody is flinging a wrist left and right, casting a frivolous beam of laughter up at the skies, oh she’s so precious, look she can’t walk right!

Feelings best translate to the contrast between emotions upon placing Piketty’s Capital in my shopping cart on Amazon, and struggling past the first ten pages. Tackling Capital seemed like a remarkable idea until I realized my lack of time, patience, and intelligence. Feelings are my useless economics degree, and you are a 600-page Amazon bestseller. But you could be any book, really; you could be Harry Potter and I’d be both the robe-clad girl in line for Barnes and Noble at midnight, and the bible-thumper who thought Voldemort to be satan. You’d be Twilight and I, both the twihard and the English professor raising my nose at lowbrow literature; the soccer mom flitting through Fifty Shades, and the Jezebel columnist condemning its misogynistic nature. Through and through, you are the book, demand exceeding supply and comfortably nestled at the top of all lists.

Feelings are necessary and you are the sufficient; if it were diagrammed, it would parallel a logical reasoning argument like the ones on the LSAT. If I went to class, then I got out of bed. Getting out of bed is necessary, going to class is sufficient. If I think of you often, sometimes with no clothes on, sometimes with your lips on mine, sometimes with your arm around me or just even doing none of those things and talking, smiling, laughing, showing each other the things we know the other would like, and then maybe kissing on the lips and each other’s necks and quietly giggling about how nobody else would ever guess that this thing could be ours, then I have feelings. Feelings are necessary, you are sufficient, and perhaps one day those dizzying feelings will dissipate at last. After all, you are the latter half of an admissions test diagram, you are the wheel that challenged me against gravity, you are the geekonomics summer must-read I couldn’t handle. Because some things that once felt so radically innate, like asking to spend time with you, suddenly place me at odds with the bare bones of nature’s power itself, as though gravity is gracelessly rolling me off my rubber soles.

My psychosis unravels to the 5/4 pulsation of life

One  I am a being, imperfectly improper like this fraction of a musical beat, pulsating larger on top, my breasts are too big, my mind thinks too fast– being, larger on top because I stress too much and there’s thoughts raging my mind. I am one of twenty thousand, a mere number in a campus of beings, we are all the one in this improper ratio, exponentially expanding  in class size; congratulations to the class of 20**, the smartest, largest, most achieved— we are improper beings, the way we train our minds to believe we are such flawless, achieved, perfect beings. One, I am one.

Two I am a lover, no boy has ever held my hand or graced his lips upon mine but life makes me blush, the way leaves change color so picturesquely in the fall, or the way people can heave such genuine laughter from the deepest crevices of their stomachs where mine stores nothing but bile– I am a lover for love itself and nothing more, and nothing less, but the absence of love leaves whatever’s left of this one soul kind of hollow, few ever give it to me, and thus I feel obligated to conceal mine from the world, in a façade of poker-faced coolness, but I am a lover of life and love and the beauty of everything around.

Three I am anger, I am fucking rage and irrationality and it’s here that my life loses it’s beats, because for each microcosm of love that sparks inside me, tidal waves of rage consequently follow. I am fury and irrationality, you make me hurl the way you glare at me with disapprovement, condescending tones and sarcastic glares, everyone’s got them, everyone’s got them for me. Everything’s aimed at me, and my defenses are up; I could unleash at you all just as horribly, if this porcelain shell of calamity ever begins to crack.

Four I am prodigy, according to you I’m the reason we’re here in the first place, the reason English was my first language, the reason I’m voting democrat, the reason  I live in 5/4, the reason I took such hard classes, the reason I am talented has become my mantra. I’m a dream. A prodigy you’ve managed to construct of your own aspirations; bricks of talent and well-roundedness, liquid cement of academia; I’m some poorly built castle of prodigality, watch me cascade into the ruins of ******* *************.

Five I am nothing in this house, close the door and preserve the memories of my existence, maintain the pristine locations of where footprints and DNA remnants used to be, where the hairbrush was the last time I’ve used it– preserve it almost as though I was never gone. I’m back though, hollowly returned in my impromptu timing, restoring the heartbeat of this house into irregularity.

Shitty poetry for your entertainment.

I like living on the hill, it gives me a sense of
security like I’m up
high far away from all problems of the earth, sort of like the way the US was
founded, some idealistically holy city atop a perfect
utopian hill, that’s where I live, in a
fucking utopia where garbage receptacles
overflow and yet every day security is
promised, the world
looks better in utopian-tinted sunglasses to block the picturesque
setting sun, and it was atop this hill that my life started
rolling down and for this I
blame security, why are we
friends, why do your grins make me
vomit, why wouldn’t you ever
know, why is this whole
rant about you; I was
given five minutes, five minutes out of my entire life to
spill garbage from my mind and thus this paragraph was
constructed, but the trash bins outside my apartment were spray
painted with the words no bodies, please, and perhaps this garbage
involves no bodies, we are nobody, no bodies, just souls
floating around because according to the philosophy class we
take
together,
identity is nothing but soul, but the falsities that people
identify us for are our exterior appearances.

Perspectives from concrete walls and tiled floors.

It’s funny because my perspective on everything has been skewed. My identity’s transitive; in philosophy class, they say human identity can be the soul or physicality, but the one right here, caged by flesh concrete and supported by a foundation of cheap peeling tile, faded altogether as my hair just grows shorter and limbs gradually diminish their radii to fulfill some insatiable quota in the eye of some ominously faceless beholder. Look at me now, but I won’t make eye contact– I’m an embarrassment, weren’t you aware? A soulless cluster of regenerating particles; a singular red backpack in a sea of twenty five thousand bookbags, and yet being as generic as the beholder itself is as gratified as my makeshift soul can ever attempt to be.