Sometimes i sit and think about doing things, and i wonder why i should do them. i think hours are given to us by god, and i have so many of them but no idea what to do with them. i have so many hours but nothing to fill them with. i sit on the couch and there is a fine layer of crystals of snow covering everything. Rachel Ray's face is distorted by the bright sheen; i wonder if i should take a photograph, but before my eyes it is already dissolving, melting away in the lifeless winter sun. there are tasks i think about getting done, but i am tired and pointless and the chance is long gone before i ever make my move.
sometimes i wonder why god gives us addictions. i wonder why god gives us things to become attached to. i wonder why god gives me these thoughts that swamp my being so i have to write and write til i am empty. i write them down for the world, but what will the world do with them?
sometimes i think god should have left us out, given somebody else's existence a try. then i could stay warm & senseless and blissfully nonexistent, as nonexistent as the stars in the sky which do not think.
maybe if i got more sleep i would not let my mind stray down these paths. but i already get so much sleep. i look forward to drowsy night times when i collapse into myself and for a few short hours i exist, but do not at the same time. i am there, aware of the minutes passing but unaware of everything all at once. and i come full circle again to how many hours i have to fill. maybe i am just bored. have you ever taken three showers in one day just to give yourself something to do?
i have not. but i'm starting to think that it is my next viable option.
i am not depressed, but i cannot swear that i am happy either. it's just that it's so forlorn not waking up to you. your sailor mouth & sunrise eyes only grace my dreams these days; your palms must be cold by now with the absence of my seeking hand. talking to a thousand therapists or friends or brothers will not do a thing for us. not one of them will save me. do i need to be saved?
if there is a god, i need one now. god give me the willpower to find acceptance.
i need routines. i hate those routines, but breaking out will not soothe my restless body. i could go to Chicago, or Boston, or some exciting city and still feel alone. i would walk the sidewalks, or write, or work, but it would just be another routine. and if i were to break out of those routines in some strange, bright city, it would just leave me with my chaos. i have become obsessed with the idea of routines.
i have put myself in this odd, unrealistic mindset where i don't want to do anything at all. i need the concrete feeling of transcribing myself onto paper, but even now the pen is too heavy in my hand and i stop.
i am exhausted. physically, and by my life as a whole.
i've become tired of it, and i'm waiting for it to pick itself back up, to become exciting again. for me to get some sleep and be woken up by it again. to have energy.
i think i am wasting it sometimes, the way i spend my days off in bed for hours, reading books that are too depressing. or sitting, listening to music. smoking too much.
i stay up thinking about things so hard my skull hurts. i wonder about god still. i wonder what happened to my faith, and if i'll ever be able to find it again. i wonder what would happen if i were to die.
i repeat that i am not depressed - i do not think i am depressed - but i am still wondering constantly what the big picture is. what the point is.
i wonder how many more replacements, how many meaningless attachments i will go through until i find somebody else i can love completely, i can trust. i wonder when damian turned into a jerk, and i make up situations where he comes back and asks for me to take him, take him as he is. where he surprises me. where he appears from nowhere.
i am letting go of him, i question what my reaction would be if he did any of the above. but he never will.
i wonder how he can be so fucking good at living life, how he can go through the motions and not let on an instant that he thinks of me. i wonder if he misses me. i don't think he does.
i have been wondering when my life will stop running on repeat.
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i have a feeling that if i think too long about the point of things, if i linger for half an extra second on the point of things, that i'll realize there is no point, it's a load of crap, and i'm really just walking in place. i have a feeling that if i let myself come to these conclusions i would slide into some kind of depression that would be so terrible, so consuming that it would be completely irreversible and everything would be over. i would be okay with not caring because it was only the truth, i would only be listening to myself and the truth, and there's nothing wrong with that except the fact that our existence is bullshit and i would have no reason to smile anymore.
so i keep moving, i keep myself in constant motion because i might one day hit that spot if i ever pause to take a breath. i've got to keep moving on to the next point before i figure out what's really going on. as long as i'm still going, it will all be okay.
hold that thought.
my brain moves way too fast for my fingers. i feel like i have so much going on in there, so many words flying around and they are going 200x faster than any pen could possibly move. my thoughts are the speed of light, but my body is just a slow-motion movie. half of the time i forget those important things i am itching to get out before i have a chance to put them down. once i find a way to harness that energy, those words, i could be brilliant. i'm sure of it. until then, i will just have a record of half-assed ideas.
my body does not heal itself. i have faint white tracings covering it, of cuts, bruises, scrapes, holes, covered over but still apparent. my ears are bleeding. not from thinking too much or anything like that; the lobes are bleeding through. i've had my ears pierced since i was six years old but they still remain as open wounds that reinfect themselves with every new pair of earrings. old thoughts still become reinfected under the right circumstances. i think i have gotten so used to grieving, to visiting events that should be long past, that anything close to healing over or moving on is unfamiliar territory. my body does not like that idea, and leaves more white tracings just waiting to become open once again. i do not let go. i forgive, but i never forget and i am thinking i should be doing some forgetting right about now. somebody should teach this sack of skin how to produce its own neosporin, somebody needs to dig into their DNA and lend me genes for flawless scar tissue.
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i didn't think there was anything wrong until she asked me "are you tired? or is something wrong?" and i got to wondering what i'm doing here pretending to sleep the day away. i've never actually gotten around to that, i mostly stay under the covers flipping through pages and occasionally flooding my pillow. i don't get it right this time, or any time, you know. i don't even mope correctly, that's what's wrong.
i've been lying in bed all day, but you know i'm not tired one bit. i've just been lying there, reading depressing books like Catcher in the Rye. it is depressing, i don't care if it's a masterpiece and hundreds of kids are writing essays about it for some english class - the thoughts running around in that kid's head makes me wonder about life. because the kid's got a point.
i wonder if the people who write those depressing books are writing from what they know, or if they are just fiction writers. because if JD Salinger thought we were a bunch of phonies, and hated it and went a little crazy... then maybe he wrote the book because some therapist told him it would help him. or because he told himself it would help him. i wonder if he knew some screw-up like me would be reading it and thinking too much, though. maybe people shouldn't be allowed to write books like that to help themselves, because there is somebody else out there reading it, with their thoughts bleeding them to death.
so i've been lying in bed, it's 3 o'clock, and the most productive thing i've thought about doing all day is taking a shower, and then i think i'll go back to bed. i don't want to do anything anymore.
i just spend my time thinking and doing things so i don't get asked too many questions. i think about the things i almost did, or i'm planning to do, or that i won't do, and the decisions accompanying them. i almost slept with him just so i wouldn't have to stay in my own bed one more night. i wanted a change of scene, but it didn't work out so i went home to my bed, hating the 6 foot rectangle of sheets and springs. you'd think i'd be fonder of the old thing, considering how much time i spend in it.
There is this habit i've become stuck with - i'm sure it's not doing me any good. anything done with the express purpose to fill an empty space will not yield good results. eating makes you fat - drinking makes you puke - smoking gives you cancer - sex gets you pregnant.
it is pointless to pretend that talking to others will replace you. it is futile to think that knowing 1000 different people will drive you out of my mind. it is always you at the end of it all, who is in my head when i am kissing some strange lips. so as i become attached at the mouth to the next one, i am repeating in my head "i am not attracted. this is not the one. come back to me."
so come back to me, would you do that for me? i know being together wasn't working out - but being apart really isn't my style, either. these days not only do i hate waking up, but i've also started to hate going to sleep. i can't grasp why people are separated when they are happier together. there are some moments when i am sure it will be okay; i will go on regardless.
there are also times when i can't help but wish you would keep talking to me like you have in the past. a good conversation is not limited to those in relationships, you know. do me a favor and don't go too far. i need you to be there when i come back finally hoping you are ready. we don't have much time left.
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