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IV.

I walked out of the soup/salad/coffee/internet café.  I had had a bowl of clam chowder and a tall espresso and two hours of photocopying and six hours of Google-searching.  The sun was setting and the air was cold and breezy.  I was still hungry but I had no money left except for two rolls of quarters and one roll of dimes in my coat pockets and I could smell dinner from someone’s house and I walked in the direction of the smell even though it was coming from the opposite direction of where my car was parked.  I carried a stack of photocopies in one hand and a staple gun in the other.  The wind blew by and I tried to close the collar of my coat closer to my neck by shrugging my shoulders.  A single car passed by and the man inside looked at me suspiciously.  I smiled and waved and he stopped his car so that he could roll down his window and ask what the hell I meant by that fucking smile.  I turned forward and continued walking toward the smell.  For a fleeting moment I felt like Melora-ing him and then I pushed the thought away and picked up the pace.  I listened for the car and realized that I could hear the engine running but could not hear it moving so I walked faster and did not look back.  I passed a wooden streetlamp post and stapled some of the photocopies onto it and continued walking without looking back.  I saw a phone booth up ahead and opened the door and stepped inside.  I placed the staple gun and the stack of papers on the floor and picked up the phone book and felt something ice cold grave against my arm and I shrieked and slammed my back into one of the glass panels.  It was the metal chain attached to the clasps holding the phone book.  The car engine stopped running and the man got out of the car and closed the door behind him.  I quickly scanned through the phonebook and searched for a number and dialed.
“Hello?  Is Sarah Sterling there?  Ah, hi, this is just a random guy.  Have you ever heard of a woman named Melora?  Oh, haven’t met her or seen her?  But you’ve heard of someone by that name.  Really?  Are you serious?  You must be kidding.  No, no, you don’t know me.  No, I’m not selling anything.  I’m just a random person who likes to make conversation with strangers, don’t worry I’m not the deranged stalker type, I just like to talk with people I’ve never met and discuss things of no particular topic, just anything you’d like to talk about—”
The man was coming closer and he was staring at me.  I knelt down to pick up the staple gun and held it in my hand like a gun but I kept smiling to show him that although I was in defensive-aggressive mode I was still willing to avoid confrontation and introduce myself under more amiable circumstance, possibly in the soup/salad/coffee/internet café in which hopefully we would become friendly enough so that he could pick up the tab.  And then he stopped and ripped off the papers that I had stapled onto the lamppost.  Then he stood there and read.  His features softened.  He smiled, and then he frowned, and then his face evened out and smoothed and he looked up at me with clear-colored eyes and nodded and then took the papers and went back into his car and then drove off.  Sarah Sterling had hung up.  I picked up my stuff and hung the phone back up and exited the booth and continued walking in the direction of the dinner smells.  I came up to another wooden lamppost and stapled more copies onto it and then moved on.  Houses came into view and I picked up the pace again.  My chest started to pound and my stomach groaned.  I broke into a run as the smell grew stronger until I saw an open window framing a well-lighted kitchen and a lonely woman in it.  I stopped and looked in from the sidewalk.  A German shepherd sits on its haunches as the lonely woman cuts pieces of steak and places it into the loyal dogs mouth.
“I hurt from things that people have said to me over ten years ago,” she said to the dog as it chewed.
My heart stopped, and then I took a deep breath and it started again.  I laughed out loud and smiled hugely and she looked up through the window and saw me and then the German shepherd got up and placed his front paws on the lonely woman’s lap and licked her face and then she sneezed.
“Bless you!” I screamed, and commenced running.
The smell of the lonely woman’s dinner faded and the wind blew hard as I ran threw it with staple gun in hand and my stack of papers cradled in my other arm, the edges of each sheet fluttering and my old shoes slapping against the pavement and my breath coming out in mists and my eyes tearing and my nose flaring from the coldness.
And then I heard it, through the open windows of the houses.  Not the whole neighborhood, but at least one out of every twenty houses.
“I am constantly in violation of…”
“Sometimes I wish that I could be awake for…”
“You don’t have to inform me of much…”
“Full of bullshit…”
“I love you, but you will never understand how much…”
“So afraid that everything I say…”
“Laughed horribly at horribly offensive…”
“Many questions followed by so much…”
“I love you, but you will never understand how much…”
“Don’t read books that aren’t considered…”
“And absolutely certain about everything…”
“I like to make believe that the entire universe…”
“I love you, but you will never understand how much.”

A husband telling his wife in a choked up voice in the living room.  A sister telling her brother while he sits on his bed and listens intently with softened features.  A boyfriend telling his girlfriend in his car as she stands on the sidewalk with the door wide open and with tears in both their eyes.  A girl telling her friend on the phone as she leans out of her second story window and sobs into her curtains.  A hobo telling his black plastic trash bag as he searches through other people’s garbage for bottles and cans.

V.

I had gone back to the building.  I had sworn to myself that it was the last time that I would be going.  Instead of a building there was a bunch of rubble and Mikhail in a bulldozer.  He pulled levers and scooped up debris to place over more debris and rolled over broken slabs of concrete and frayed copper wiring and crooked steel cables and broken support beams and shattered glass fragments until I called his name and waves.
“Hello,” he said, smiling, while continuing to maneuver the vehicle.
“Hello.  Where is Melora?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit.”
“Yes.  Shit.  Very very shit.”
“Oh my God, wouldju look at that.”
In the midst of a pile of gray dust and chips of old windows was Melora’s rocking chair, sitting there like a throne, with the broken pieces of glass glinting in the light, making it look like the only remnants of royalty in some old dead kingdom.  There was a small stack of papers stapled to the wooden seat.  A post-it was attached to the top sheet of paper.  I gingerly pulled the stack off of the chair and read the note.  Mikhail got out of the bulldozer and looked over my shoulder.
“What say?”
“It says, ‘Run, run, run.’”
“What they mean by that?”
“I guess, I, I dunno.”
“I go back to work.  It is nice seeing you again.  Stay strong and healthy.”
He patted my shoulder with his old soot-covered hand with dismissive good will and then got back into the bulldozer.  I walked back to my car and then sat at the wheel and read.  Then I read it over again.  And then one more time.  Then I thought about what to do while watching Mikhail scoop broken sections of my life onto more broken sections of my life.  Then I thought about how much money I had left in my savings account, how much I could sell my apartment for, who I should give the majority of my material possessions to, and how many frequent flyer miles I had.  I touched the back of my head and felt for the scar left by my first Melora.  On certain nights I would wake up feeling the pressure of the staple head pushing itself back on to me.  Sometimes I would hear papers fluttering, and I would look around and ruffle my hair but there would be nothing.  I had so many unpaid phone bills.  So much loneliness to run away from.  So many people to meet.  So many things to say to them.  I drove over to the nearest Kinkos and spent a hundred dollars at the Xerox machine.  I bought a staple gun.  I drove to the nearest car dealership and sold my car for $3,000.  And then I ran back home.  I felt a fluttering at the back of my head, and I smiled.

VI.

Melora’s Confession

I hurt from things that people have said to me over ten years ago.  I regret things that I have said to people over ten years ago.

I have felt lonely in a room full of people.

I have acted depressed for attention.  I have acted happy for attention.  I have acted introverted for attention.  I have acted cruelly for attention.  I have acted strangely, quirkily, and eccentrically for attention.  I have acted brash and outspoken—as if I cared of no one else’s opinion of me—because I am desperately concerned in their opinion of me.  When I open my mouth to speak, my eyes search for approval.

I do not disbelieve in the existence of God and I do not believe in the nonexistence of God, though both fascinate me.  I am irritated by my own ambivalence.  I have so many questions followed by so much silence.

I am constantly in violation of my personal principles, and whenever I am not in violation of my personal principles I am espousing lazier principles that I don’t genuinely subscribe to.  When I figure this out, I mire myself in guilt.  When I am not espousing lazier principles I am espousing ridiculously strict ones to compensate for the violation of my personal principles (which obviously weren’t rigorous enough because I still dismiss them freely)—I set myself up for disappointment by setting the bar too low, and reprimand myself for failure.

I am completely full of bullshit.  I want everyone to think that I’m not.

I sometimes imagine doing terrible, terrible things to people, humiliating them, injuring them, killing them.  Sometimes I have passing thoughts about killing myself, though far from the constitution and mental condition to do so.  I am often fascinated by disgusting things, and disgusted by things that you might deem fascinating.  Telling you all of this scares the hell out of me.

I sometimes feel so full of initiative that I could single-handedly save the world, but then I realize that all I really want to do is save myself from it.  And then I sit back down in my chair.

I have often done unto others what others have done unto me.  I have ostracized others to keep others from ostracizing me.  I feel that by excluding some people, the rest of the group will keep me in.  I am in constant fear of being excluded.

I am annoyed when people try to impart wisdom upon me, as though they have experienced something that I haven’t, something that requires condescension to explain.  I often try to impart wisdom upon people and get upset when they treat my words dismissively.

I have such a hard time trying not to be egotistical that I often end up presenting myself as egotistically modest.

I listen to sophisticated music to feel sophisticated.  I don’t read books that aren’t considered classics, or at the very least, monumental contemporary achievements.  I don’t like to watch movies that don’t get rave reviews because I won’t know if I’m supposed to enjoy it or not.

I blame the government but don’t keep up with it.  Whenever I’m made privy to any hole in the system, I exploit it for all it’s worth.

There are lies that I have told myself for so long that I have forgotten that they were lies.

I take sides with whoever appears to be the most informed group of people.  You don’t have to inform me of much, just act as though you have been thoroughly informed.

I am so afraid that anything I say to you might come out sounding boring.  I am so afraid that you think I’m boring.  I am afraid that everyone that does not currently think I’m boring will one day conclude that I am.

I have acted rudely and unfairly to fat people because they were fat.  I have a hard time looking at ugly people in the eye.  I have laughed at horribly offensive jokes and then said, “That’s horrible.”  I have said that love does not involve physical attraction but I have never gone out with someone that I did not find physically attractive.

I have tried to live for the moment and run from the past and not worry about the future, but have been consistently let down in all three efforts.  I am still unsure of whether doing any of those things is a good idea.

I “debate” with people under the pretense of “objectivity” when my only real intention is to win an argument.   I hate when people rub salt in the wound when I’m proven incorrect but I will gladly do it to you if I ever get the chance.

I will expect you to apologize first, for anything.  In my mind I am the one that has been wronged and you are the one that is at fault.  If I ever apologize first, I will consider myself the only one mature enough to settle the dispute, even if you created more conflict than I did, which I will almost always be more inclined to believe.

I’ve supported causes I’ve never believed in.  I‘ve believed in causes that I’ve never supported.  I’ve said that, “Somebody should really do something,” when that was pretty much all I did for that particular thing.

I’ve seen dying homeless on the streets and starving children on television and it’s never moved me to tears.  I will drop a quarter in a hat or read a brochure about the deteriorating environment and sometimes mail a few bucks to feed a tribe in Somewhereland, but only if it is sure to assuage my guilt.  Any services I lend to someone are in their essence nothing more than self-services cloaked in a guise of self-sacrifice.

I try to act cool and smooth and absolutely certain about everything.  I am absolutely certain that everyone who tries to act cool and smooth is, on the inside, completely uncertain about everything.

I want my problems to be unique, I want my thoughts to be thoughts that no one’s ever had before.  I want my beliefs to become a new and original religion.

I want to be perpetually happy but I get really fucking pissed off when someone tells me to be happy when I’m not in the mood to be.  I have tried to be obliviously in love with the world.  It wears off after a while.  I like to make-believe that the entire universe is covered with an eternal transcendental blanket of sacredness but I can only make-believe for short periods of time before I start to feel corny and stupid and embarrassed.

I pretend that I hate the word “hate,” but I use it quite frequently.

I love you, but you will never understand how much.  I am so afraid that you don’t love me—and this is just another way of telling you how much I love you.

There will always be things that you will never know about me. There will always be things that I will never know about me—so don’t feel left out.  I want to be understood, but have such a depressingly finite amount of understanding in me.  I am often inclined to believe that my sensory feelings and raw emotions are deceptive entities, and that I should be living on a more distanced, philosophical, metaphysical, stuffy-intellectual plane of thought, but I can’t help touching your hair, and smiling at you, and yelling at you, and needing to kiss you, and crying, and wanting, and loving, and hating, and being ignorant, and becoming conscious of my ignorance and then failing to change, and then becoming conscious of my failure to change—I can’t help changing, changing from content to deprived; selfish to magnanimous; optimistic to pessimistic to indifferent; absolutist to skeptic to absurdist to temporarily insane and then right back to where I started.  I can’t help living in a constant state of ordered chaos, I want to be in balance, but balance horrifies and bores me.  I want to be simultaneously loved, alone, and satisfied, but I can’t help being aware that having all three at once is an impossibility and I can’t help but realize that I have never wanted all three at the same time anyway.

Sometimes I wish that I could be awake for everything.  Sometimes I wish that I could go to sleep forever.

Sometimes I am positive that the whole world has gone to shit.  Sometimes I am positive that everything will be OK, and that everything has always been OK from the very start, and I was just too caught up in myself to notice.  Sometimes everything is beautiful.