I Have To Tell You

Paul Anglada
Paul Anglada


have to tell you things have not been great lately.

close my blinds, Google rare parrots, read about white sand beaches in American Samoa, stare at the T key, listen to songs with hand-drawn landscape cover art, fuck up my gums with coffee stirrers.

never listened to your voicemail.

was waiting for the perfect week, day, hour, minute, half-minute, intensely perfect beat in the middle of a quarter-minute.

eventually realized there will be no perfect beat.

eventually realized I am sad.

received my sadness like a rejection from an elite university: After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that you are sad.

sat very still.

felt jealous of all the less sad people I never became.

watched a YouTube video about the equation scientists use to calculate the number of alien civilizations there are right now, and it’s a lot.

want to tell you I’m sorry.

want to tell you I’m really, really, really, really, really, really sorry. A pile of empty stationery behind your solar plexus. A line of sleepers under your eye shaped like the Florida Keys.

fear waking up one day and pounding my pillow into pillow butter and painting myself into my bedroom wall.

am dramatic.

want to hug you again, hug you into a puddle, hug you into a tear, hug you into a gravity missile, hug you into a biscuit, hug you into a pile of cake crumbs on the kitchen floor.

have no plans for the next, like, 25 years.

want to stop breathing but that’s silly, want to hang out in a coral reef with a giant sea worm but that’s not realistic right now, want to tell you forty things at the same time but I only have one mouth and you gotta play the cards you’re dealt, said whoever, whatever, whatever.

hope you never forgive me and I hope you forgive me, and there’s nothing else to say now so I’ll stop saying stuff. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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This post was originally published at Human Parts on Medium.

I like running in circles inside my apartment.

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