Just Pushing Air

Why do we remember meaningless things?
I remember telling a girl I'd met on the internet, who I never have and never will meet, that I had just watched a weird movie - Buster's Mal Heart.
She'd seen it too.
We both thought it was okay.

I wish I could replace those memories with small details to fill the gaps in memories more important to me. The color of her shirt, or the expression on her face. Something to make it more real.

I kind of hate movies for that. They always make memories seem so crystal clear, but they're not. Not even the important ones. At least not for me.

I think I'm addicted to my phone.
And I don't even like it.
I've got the world at my fingertips and I couldn't care less.
It's just a distraction from the empty apartment and the emptier space on the other side of the door.
The phone screen if full of things but it's really just a void.
Nietzsche really knew his shit.

I feel like I'm always searching for inspiration in the laziest ways possible. I keep a list of all the movies I watch, as if that actually means something. I've watched six hundred and fifty-one.
I people watch, but people aren't really that interesting. Not in real life, anyways. They like routine and comfort and sameness, and they're not so worried about being something worth watching.
I wish they were, but then I'd be a hypocrite.

I'm the blade of a ceiling fan. Always chasing, always being chased. And for what?
Just pushing air out of the way.