First of all that is a lie.
I needed a title, spur-of-the-moment meets fly by the seam of my pants type thing and c’est parti. FOMO. A white person’s thing, honestly. So I lied but I’ve never told a lie in my life but if I’m lying, then I’m telling the truth and that means I just lied but if that is true then it is false but the sentence itself at this point becomes maddeningly unhelpful [look up liar’s paradox, you’ll love it].
In all actuality I have decided to write an essay about mind: yomi doesn’t have mind. It’s so bad. He walks into every encounter with people hoping they’re at least half decent human beings that would just do and go away. He knows if there happens to be any need to face the other person or people [especially worse if they’re women people, my God] he will bend, he will smile, nod and do that pitiful happy birthday pink baby girl voice and wish their violence away from him.
You probably hate yomi if you ask him beforehand to appear before people, talk to people, address or otherwise speak to people generally. Read me, he’s no social recluse, introvert or nothing like that. Socializes well enough but not enough enough. Can still very vividly [read, painfully] remember yomi reading a psalm for some church week thing. He read and absolutely mastered the whole of the psalm chapter, knowing so much about the intricacies of what king David had to tell to Jehovah God. Probably cited, recited and sang it more than the man after God’s heart himself, that poor child. Cometh the hour, cometh the man, eh? No. First of all his throat went missing. It finally came back but refused to dust the sand it picked up outside. Then his nervous system decided to act as such, that is to say nervously [and quite stupidly, if you’d asked him] and drenched his lower half with especially cold sweat. Zero armpit sweat; rough, dry face, soaked underwear. You can imagine him with his soon to be [almost] prominent facial hair and wide carton coloured chinos standing there feeling like a steel beam in a collapse. The microphone came to him and he managed to say a grand total of 2 verses. Any sign of disappointment he did not read on people’s faces he imagined. Oh, they clapped but those people will applaud water for boiling, you see.
yomi constitutes a great deal of embarrassment to himself. It’s in the little things [and big things too] but he never fails to disappoint. He sits down as his greatest critic and rises as his strongest enabler. Doesn’t want people to feel bad for him but at the same time manages to be an absolute pitiful fucking insect. You’d be much better not knowing someone penning an op-ed castigating himself when he lacks the fortitude of character to write anything else in almost a calendar yeah. A smooth-brained, slack jawed idiot by any degree.
He, you see, imagines what kind of place he wants to carve for himself in the world if he starts calculating who and how he would greet when he walks by people. In his head he is the love child of Picasso and Kanye West’s ego nurtured at Gwyneth Paltrow’s bosom. I pity him. You should see him before he has to talk to people. Last time he had to talk to his neighbors about a small sanitation issue he was a mess. Admittedly put on a relaxed façade but this boy’s heart was moving like a locomotive. He could not sleep that afternoon and somehow involved his nerves in the movie he was watching [In Bruges, great movie]. The conversation lasted 3 minutes; his blood pressure was 140/90.
I’m not going to look up the word phlegmatic but I think that describes him. Like phlegm. Malleable, irrelevant, unwanted. Letting things happen to you isn’t the way to be great. Allowing yourself be the rock water falls on will be your undoing: denudation. Thank god for three years of geography.
yomi hides behind his wishes, hopes and listening to Yeezus at high volumes as his testament that someday he will break out from the cycle and do something instead. He is a fool. He wants so much but whines, slouches his shoulders and assumes that opportunity meets his terribly low standard of preparation. Maybe, maybe. At least he can write, has a fool that can write. He may not believe it most of the time but at least this is proof, if anything he starts well. Still.
He’d do well to get busy living or get busy dying.
