I'm a Gemini.  Desperately trying to differentiate.  I flirt and my attempts to flirt are failing, so I redouble my intuitive tactics, aggressively.  Until you become just my friend, and until that friendship rekindles a hope that my standoffishness is making you like me.  First I tease and try to be witty and insulting, then I ask random questions, inquiring hungrily into the personality, I unburden and let show my own personality, tell you my favorite bands, ask about yours.  I don't ask desperate, psychologically taxing personal questions of people I'm not attracted to, or ask about their past.  I turn at a 45 degree angle and pretend they don't exist.  People I'm attracted to, very easily I get enthusiastic and they don't have to win me.  Then as I recognize my desperate attempts at flirting or trying to woo them with wit, uniqueness, quirkiness, that I'm not usual, with my words... I start to give up and try to get personal, ask personal questions, have the type of conversations I like in spite of them, even usurping their own ability to do something other than answer my questions.  Like whether a personality is important.  Earlier in my life, my randomness, my wit would soften people toward me as they realized I was not only harmless but sweet and interesting.  It would soften men who otherwise would see me as desperately entering their space.  Now as I try to observe and find the key to stop myself, I try to point out the root of my behaviors, or how I am aggressively bringing them myself, saying this is me without their asking.  And not asking about them unless it is personal and I want to compare to mine or what I want to know.  I am, I don't do.  I contemplate all day what I am and whether I am affecting anyone, or anyone I want to affect, simply with my personhood. 

I stand on the subway a jagged edge and posture with hands in pockets.  Men in black coats, depressing 30 plus women in their hasty slit rouge, under eye slits, long poofy down coats rather than the trim ones that cut off at the waist, with places to go.  I classify people endlessly.  Catching the lean professional men I like, erverything trimmed and nothing to spare, Gumby like silhouette of fitted peacoat or general black coat, slim cut pants, a line of a scarf perhaps, black sensibly cut hair or floppy, tall and slim like a knife.  The hipster men tall and cutting the same silhouette but with different clothing.  Attractive men are in such a uniform class because of fashion in life, they stand out between the cantankerous women in their floor length coats, huffing to sit down with their bags, they complain when there is an announcement and in the bathroom they sing, hum, use a cell phone, and complane, the shady worker like men too old for ]their Tims out of style baggy pants and Eskimo hooded down coats, with their legs and arms maximally apart, staring around like a warning sign to women.  Suspiciously dressed like it's 1996 or perhaps putting the Carhartt to its original use.  We wear black now, not the colorful mustard yellow and lime green Peter Pan collar 60s inspired coats of my college.  Our dilemmas are not obvious.  The subway is a sloping tile off white with periwinkle seats and in it we don't appear reserved, but at angles, clashing with each other.  Who caves?  Who provides space.  We don't seem obviously lost in thought, not me, not the pretty girl with the braided weave and nose ring who smiles and says sorry when someone takes her space.  I want her to summon her bravery, but not at me practicing masculine behaviors.  Not the tall kempt man who turns his face and body away when I glance at him.  Granted that I glance with a wide eyed, sudden look.  And away like I'm imitating an awkward bird.  We sit spread out and not.  I wonder if our minds are in important, significant places, I have no way to judge someone's depth and pathos like someone else might.  I believe their depth comes from their unavoidable duties, those that give them character, their family, their sons, the strictures of poverty, the people to whom we must give our love and time.  The people who we owe selflessness confer humanity on us.  It is not an errand, it is me rushing to pick up my son who is failing in school and in an after school program because I have to stay at work to keep him in school.  But, I can't see this.  I hear Russian women, rudely sitting with their bags by my thigh, soliciting with concern if the person on the other line ate because they just made aladye which are fresh in the refrigerator, once they wake up from their nap they should go and get it.  I wonder if my humanity comes from what I lack and what I aspire to.  Perhaps my lack of actually doing anything really just emphasizes my insignificance. 

I wonder if I'm as personable as I felt I was in college.  Or if my self oriented personality traits such as uniqueness or different thought process really make me at all worthy or interesting if I don't create anything with it. 

I don't know if its worth it. To assert myself and the pain of achievement. The world's judgment of my products but at this point I am not incurring the kind of risk that generates stagnant or frozen fear. I want to be something else and I thrash against ideal circumstances. Biddy like I seem to be curling into a plastic bag toting leather jacket shrew. I need help with my bags. But yet I still go to dance at parties. Wait patiently behind the jagged corners of men spreading their weight maximally to close in groups of women. It lacks excitement. The promise of emails the Ricky's smell of wigs and weaves. Most beauty and counterculture came from people robbed of a childhood. I don't know if a grinding desire for ego validation is juice for creativity. Less a pain than a tearing. A constant muscle hunger and stretching out of the head toward others. I can say that what I could do to change my day is undefined. Depends on who I must become now or later 

Come Armageddon, come Armageddon, come sings morrissey. I have to make meaning of this life because this life has not amounted to achievement or memory. Have I broken through routine? Who knows if I can emerge beyond what is handed to me. Beyond the egos search. My ego enters the bowery poetry club and looks for validation or binding. I enter establishments and sliding walls of people face perpendicular or backward. I'm going to sit at another rectangular counter as at a 45 degree angle men and women in conversation turn in curlicues, at the wooden table responsible to each other and each others feelings unveiled. We make room for others or else walk in continuous sliding doors of people moving somewhere. I imagine that relationships and children and blood bonds are obligation that pushes us to pain and satisfaction. Satisfaction seems to come from obstacles. The pain and the risk threshold of climbing mountains and providing for our demanding children. I am at that point where providing for my basic needs is still an accomplishment.