I won’t write about the inside of my bedroom because not even my walls could make sense of the things that occur within them. I won’t write about my distaste for smoking cigarettes because it looks healing when I watch the smoke come up from out your lungs. I won’t write about the dresses I purchase and let hang in my closet without any intentions of wearing them. I won’t write about my thoughts on politics, because thoughts on politics should only be voiced if they’re articulated from the mouths of those who have retained the knowledge from years of living and learning about said topics.
I won’t write about the pictures I hang on my walls because they’re beginning to sink into the frames as the memories are driven farther and farther away by time.
I won’t write about my curtains because they’re black and heavy and cover up the outside world on the days and nights that I pretend those four walls exist outside of a house and within an ocean that floats the room along endlessly, untouched by other humans. I won’t write about my animals because I have found other, less insane ways to exert my emotions than on an overemphasized responsibility.
I won’t write about my personal relationships because the ink would make a mark far too dark and bleed completely through to the next page and it would then become too impossible to erase, and sometimes I just need to erase it. Even more curious, it’s impossible to write with ink on a computer, yet I do so tentatively. I won’t write about the sidewalks that take me to school because I can’t imagine the conversations they’ve heard, the spit they’ve tasted from old gum and chewing tobacco, the pain they’ve felt when little children fall off of their bikes and onto them, and the blood that seeps through from skinned knees and nights of heavy drinking.
I won’t write about you because it is unnerving that you wish to be written about. I won’t write about you because when you quote me and say, “This was about me,” you’re wrong. I won’t write about you because even though I have never put my thoughts on you to paper you’ve decided I have. I won’t write about you because with all of the things your eyes can do like read, watch, create, learn, interpret, and love, you choose to create a world that spins according to your twisted logic.
I won’t write about you because you’re not important, not to me. Nor the waitress you didn’t tip, nor the air you exhale with emotional toxicities far more dangerous than the CO2. I won’t write about you because you seem to broadcast that clearly enough by yourself. I won’t write about you because you’re a million pieces of people that I have encountered throughout my life; the millions of pieces that create animosity and tears and crimes and horrible thoughts. And like those millions of pieces, you simply can’t see that the way the universe dances around each person on earth is a miracle within itself.
I won’t write about you because the way you see righteousness is through people like you. The ones who deserve more but were never given the chance to obtain it, when in reality there is no righteousness inside of the box that ignorance and excuses created that you comfortably live within. I won’t write about you because you correlate age with maturity and intellect. I won’t write about you because you think literature only appears in great works of art and on the inside of novels.
But most of all, I won’t write about you because inside of your skin, and through your skull you have conceived and constituted a world bound by walls and theories and the idea that innovations and imaginations have a limit. I won’t write about you because the edges of the world were never bounded by a finite edge, not an edge that Christopher Columbus sailed to, not an edge that the Bible created, not an edge that submarines nor airplanes can travel to, not an edge bounded by the thoughts and creations of the world’s most intelligent humans, and most certainly, not an edge created by you.