"KEEP WRITING. You have a gift and you need to use it.”
She’s said it to me several times, and while it used to motivate me, now it aches. The inadequacies fuel my complacency, and I don’t wear my seatbelt anymore.
I’ll start something with you just to get out of my own head. It’s too fucking tight in there, I can’t breathe, the same damn thoughts, relentless.
"I don't ever mean to upset you, though it seems I do when I'm trying to express these things (this is not meant to be an argument or point of contention, just an assertion of the inevitable,) but I think we're both far different than I thought. … Like I'm telling you all this now, for what? 'Cause now I don't vent to anyone else, not ever; oh loyal me, abstaining from every opportunity that will leave me feeling anything but guiltless.”
Jesus Christ. Wrote it all down, every fucking thing, months ago. Those feelings never left.
And… we’re off! First 20 of 40 oz down, only half a bottle left to go. I already know how bad tomorrow's going to be, the tingles of tonight's intoxication wearing off, and total disregard of reality, a blur like every day for the last 3 months. Restock the printer paper, press "okay.” Take lunch orders. Delete Twitter. Re-download.
Someone once said, "gag me with a spoon”—it’s stuck in my head every time I hear someone talk about love, or Snapchat, or what they’re doing this summer... Anything at this point. Still wanna jump off a cliff; not to hit the bottom, but to feel the sensation of falling, forever.
Random sentences bar my sentences, barred by senselessness. What? What makes sense about any of it?
It’s Taylor Swift and Lorde, Hamlet and Yorick, but the only skull I'd like to clasp and address is my own.
It’s Friday… If I don't go out, something's wrong, right? I'm sick, but it's all in my head.
No comments:
Post a Comment