relayed, so to speak

as if you need to be jovial all the time. 
of course, i tell nothing to anyone anymore. and they keep listening in even though there is none to be said, each heaved in their silent crawl, ready to snap snap snap at every opportunity. i am alone in my wandering/running.
after all, what’s worse than the absence of a person? it is silence of presence.
at least for the latter you could take comfort in not having to care, to reach out. no agitation to yak about in order to fill in the emptiness. the spilling of triviality.
but here i am basking in agony. basking? how can there be joy in pain?
never.
yet you keep calling me a masochist downplaying the suffering of others but i am the one who is always try to be jovial about this unbearable existence.
we laugh at ourselves, believing it will alleviate ourselves gaping at the world with wonder and beauty everyday we become little woodsworths and seize, carpe diem, tres bien tres bien.

but now it’s just tres movais.