The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.
Monachopsis is that sinking feeling in your stomach when you hit a dead end, that round peg in that square hole, when your eyes go dry and your lips go chapped. The lost, the sorrowful, the blue. They say he runs in the family, is hereditarily hateful, and is grateful for the all the ache that you can take tonight, that lingers into the morning like a lover. He’s the quiet kid at parties, the wallflower, the mouth wired shut, and the low-burning flicker of the freezing flame. Monachopsis is the only one drunk, has numbed taste buds. Monachopsis is Sunday nights, is texting exes, and is two parts ennui, two parts sex. He holds your eyes open from rest, keeps you far from a best, and makes up the words you can’t get off your chest. Monachopsis is a stranger, monachopsis is an old friend. Monachopsis was never the beginning, but is dwelling into the end. Monachopsis is after you’ve softly asked yourself, “What’s happened to me?”
A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details
Ambedo, my dear, is one you’re sure to not have known yet. She is the clanging of flagpoles in the harbor, the breeze above the bay, the first bite of a cocktail, the crackle of a fire, the morning dew on grass blades, and you dancing dangerously to the beat of my heart. Darling, there are times when these little fleeting feelings run on the back of your neck and chest, like goosebumps really. The muted moments of life that you can’t hear, but feel in your chest like the shockwave of bombs. The times that make you take deep breaths, make you lose rest, and make you get that lump in your throat. Those little “oh shit” moments. When something can be so silently strong, sunsets at home, stars shining through the fog, your nose wrinkling when you smile with your eyes wide, make me sit down, shuts me up, and makes me remember that maybe things will be alright.
The awareness of the smallness of your perspective in the grand scheme of the universe
Occhiolism is daily. Occhiolism comes around nightly to come pay rent from residence inside apartments of my headspace. Occhiolism, babygirl, is the lonely cabin in the woods, is the small fish in the big pond, and the blood-curdling scream in the dark. It asks questions, never answers, gives me headaches, and reminds me of a smaller world when we were kids. When Mom’s blueberry pancakes, taking the bus to school, and recess bared the same mass of parties, sneaking cigarettes, rock and roll, and making pretty little things cry. But it’s not all bad sweetheart! Occhiolism is sobering, grounding, and tethers to the greater realities of this island were all running around on. Its reminiscent of the bigger picture, that everything owes you nothing, that were all alone from start to finish, and keeps me holding on with white knuckles and sweaty palms that everything happens for a reason. It is me, a lone ranger riding cross-country, a roll of the dice, and without thinking twice. Occhiolism makes me feel small, and makes me feel ten feet tall. It’s the idea that maybe I’m the only one awake at night. It makes me want to kiss you, to stay in bed, and makes me remember that life is short. Can we dance to one more song before then nights over?
A typical aspect of modern society that suddenly strikes you as absurd and grotesque.
Wytai is the dog-whistling screech that is just loud enough to allow agitation. Wytai is freshman college girls getting cat called in Miami Beach on a Wednesday night. Wytai is the wrong place at the right time, is the fool in the city, is the $9 beer, is scuzzy guys, white powders in a hot city, and sweat stained Gucci bomber jackets. It is smeared red lipstick, is carnally sweet, is a morning after regret, and only has one way out: a $40 Uber, or one more drink to take her away, a replacement for the Prince Charming supposed to sweep her off her feet. It is grotesque, it is Lynchian, it is a Tarantino bloodstain against a glass window, is both the Frat star and the Vegan grad student throwing up in the bathroom, just barely missing the sink. Wytai is let me out of here. Wytai is I need a nap, I need a smoke, I need a breath, I need a break. Wytai is “Why try? Fuck that.”
flowing with honey; as if sweetened by honey.
Mellifluous is you, and has me coming back to your door like a moth to a light. Its slow, and sweet, and sticky. It is the trap I am privileged and promised to enjoy. It is loud kissing; it is a love- call it what you want- like molasses. It’s a down comforter, it’s a tight hug with a shake, its loud music in a car, with its only audible rival being you and I belting out every known lyric. Its hydrangea flowers and campfires and cold water and hot sun and summer. It is summer with every step I take. It is mellifluous, it is enchanting, it is entrancing, and this scares me. Mellifluous is my shaky hand. Mellifluous is taking you home to Mama is good dreams, is radiant, and incendiary. Mellifluous is newspaper sitting on hot coals. Mellifluous is the smell of sunscreen, is pushing you in the pool, and is running through sprinklers for fun. Mellifluous bobs us like a boat on an open Atlantic, is giving you the wheel, and the idea of sinking or not never crosses my mind.