Twitchy

I’ve become a twitchy amalgamation of an automaton and grounded flesh. I lose my veneer of life when I stop my fidget but only because I assume that: to fidget// is to be alive. I have parted with my perception of what it means to simply sit and be, and have now obsessed over how to appear as if I am being. A passerby approaches; no more thinking of me than I do towards a tired grasshopper whom I’ve been torturing for three blocks now; threatening it with my big boot and spurts from my genetic hyper-salivation. They’re an old soul, so they muster up the normality to pick their chin up off their chest for a chance to ask me for directions. Tragically his attempt at humanity and eye contact has sent his feet into auto pilot, squashing what was once tortured but ending a life nonetheless. What previously had my attention hops no more so I move on to this larger folk, who has a greater capacity to figure me out. I verbally perform as a baritone dullard, while my synapse interns burn through pink mattered filing cabinets, desperate to stop my muttering. I wonder where on Earth an “abandoned cop car with doilies for hubcaps” could be. My eyes meet his, and I sink. My mouth assumes it’s usual rigamarole of puckering, half smiling and flexing, almost as if I were made by Meta and my soul purpose was to appear as if I function. My eyes feel heavy, and I no longer think about the “firetruck with acorns for a siren”, I simply count the seconds until his eyes no longer need mine so I can have them back. I survey the street corners to suggest that maybe I thought I had seen the “ambulance with with a turret for an engine” but just can’t seem to pin the tail. So I shrug, apologize and walk away, not caring about what he might say next because I tried, I twitched, and I fear he might think I’m just a food delivery drone that grew good eyebrows.