“Obsessive” is a word I’ve heard so often that it’s become permanently etched into my skin.
An expectation that I’m trying to live up to.
It irritates my insides, but goes down like cough syrup.
To obsess is to preoccupy with the smallest, most insignificant details;
The mundane is monumental - the useless becomes necessary.
For example - do I dare to eat an orange
Or an apple?
Watch a film or go outside?
Sit by the window smoking, or hide under covers? - that way, I cannot be romanticised.
I’ve been making a new mould for myself - a space
that I deserve to occupy.
Planners and schedules pile up on my desk, and I do my best to neglect them with utmost care.
I pretend to care about biodiversity,
And the stock market,
And the Berlin Wall.
And not to care about my appearance - although the amount of times
I’ve thought about losing weight this week scares me.
“Obsessive” in a sense that I can do no wrong.
That I have the power to control everything - from the words I use to the colour of my socks (white, always);
To obsess is to let your impulses consume you,
To stop exercising restraint.
Never minding the constant warnings from friends,
From the benevolent onlookers,
I hyperfixate on small dots and patterns - see the shreds of fabric obscure my vision
Remind myself of Yayoi Kusama and her own obsessions; live through her pained brushstrokes,
Her screaming prints.
Because if she can create and be ill - ill and suffering,
Ill and cold,
Ill and miserable,
Ill and eternally rich in her illness
- if she can do it, maybe s
o can I.