I’m anxious all the time. I feel so unsafe everywhere–not in a suicidal way, never that way–I’m overwhelmed. I wake up too early every day. Most days I wake up sad. I try not to think about it, I do things that make me temporarily feel better, but I don’t forget. My brain never stops. I want to find a place where it isn’t like this, I want a home, I want to enjoy the people I’m around, I want to fix..everything. I never get it done. I don’t have a job. I’m not going to school. I spent more money, I have no money. I waste days driving in circles, going nowhere. It used to make me feel better.
How do you stop dwelling in your own tragedy? How do you fix your broken house? How do you help yourself? Have I ever been safe?
Every day I lose myself to these questions–and countless others. Locked on and detached. I’m constantly shaking. I look around and I see nothing–outside, the trees are symbols of something I cannot have, roots. Inside, sad broken people of my family and thousands of meaningless objects that fail to fill the space, no shelter. My friends are beautiful people. I know they are sad, perhaps lost. We can’t save each other, and we know it. I watch us laugh, and places I cannot describe ache. This isn’t enough. Nothing has changed. I see more now, it hurts more now.
I go to bed far too early. I get in various beds that do not feel like mine, and I am sad. I think of all that I wish for, I think of who I am, I think of who I wish to be, I think of people I will never know again and I think of how I failed them, I think of my fears, I think of the lovely human kissing my forehead and saying “sweet dreams” and for a moment I know peace–the door closes and I am a broken child, afraid of life. Afraid to live. What am I going to do? How do I live confined within myself? Where do I go? Can someone else help? How do I fix myself? How do I fix my house? What else can I think about? Why won’t it go away? Why would anyone want to die when life is so beautiful? Why doesn’t my life feel beautiful? How do I still want to live so desperately? How do I live without feeling so desperate?
I fall asleep. The earth spins and we recognize that our calendars have declared another day–a fresh opportunity to ruin the bigger picture and my overall happiness by becoming immediately and continuously panicked by the thought of time passing and nothing changing, except the color of my hair.
“I think of my brain as a huge wall of books. To get information I have to climb up the ladder, find the right book and read it. Sometimes one might accidentally fall off the shelves and flip to a page on the ground–that’s when I get random knowledge or memories.” – The one who loves me.
I wish I had a shrinking submarine. I want my brain to be a library instead, teach me how to clear my head.
I woke up very sad. He held me and spoke clever things, while I was sleeping he drew this. (It even says Mr. Sanders above the door!) I’m not so sad anymore.
Such a fine line.
No one can remember where it starts, only when they first caught sight of it.
It’s a very simple line, straightforward.
You are taught and told not to cross it. Perhaps you do, cross the line, but only in thought–so that’s alright–it’s not as though you’ve stepped any. No closer or farther back, no, just imagining. Does the line change? Heavens, yes. The line will shapeshift and bend, forming canyons and mountains the likes of which you’ve never seen. But alas, we do not cross it. Some braver than others, usually for the attention, take to the line. How they dance and flip, flying along the line as if it were a trapeze. They dare not cross, for theirs is an act of balance. A game. To imagine the thrill of being one so courageous, so graceful–to touch the line without consequence or fear of falling over it–why, it’s almost too much for those on this side.
My house is not a home, but I don’t mind.
Because I own these roads, and have too much time.
The front seat of my car is a throne.
Behind this wheel there is hope.
I will fly wherever I go.
So know if I don’t answer my phone, I am pleasantly alone.
Last year I was a ghost, I thought I grew–but I’m still broke.
Everyday we come too close, to reaching the end of the rope.
Please know I love you so, but I’m getting in my car and never coming back.
I don’t know if I’m sick.
I’m sick of questioning. The nagging, I’m constantly scratching at invisible fleas. People are selfish. I am. I want things, I take things, I’m angry and I’m shit company when I don’t like the plan. Other people don’t plan things the way I do, this irks me. Looking at others it’s simple to me–seeing where they’ve gone wrong, what they choose to define themselves by, what could be improved. I wonder, what could I be doing better? What do they resent in my behavior? Why can’t anyone take a joke anymore? Why does everything have to become heavy and serious? Where did the fun go? With our innocence? Was it ever there, or did we just see what we wanted? I understand it.. but I don’t want it.
I built my world around these people and this rotten house. I don’t think I like it anymore. I want to take what I love and run from all of this. I always needed to feel needed. Now I need myself. I am trying not to be resentful, but I fear the longer I stay and the more that I think.. I don’t know. Things will get worse. Perhaps this pessimistic viewpoint is the reason things have been getting worse, who knows? I am tired, my smile is cracking and I am afraid.
Chin up, kid. There’s a party tomorrow, go practice your faces in the mirror.
I’ve never let anyone care for me. Nobody knows how to, and I don’t expect them to–I’m a complex mess. No one takes care of me like I do. Even when I had someone who was, to an extent, supposed to, I didn’t trust them to support me. It was more about healing them, preserving myself, buried under their needs in the process. This is why I do not set expectations. To avoid disappointment. It’s safer to be alone. The moment you put faith in something out of your control you risk losing all progress. If someone lets you down, there’s nothing to be done. Depend only on yourself and you will grow strong. Disappointment will be your source of improvement, all within you.
This is why I never date things. If I write the date first it changes the tone. I never know how to start after that because every thought follows the date, instead of just jumping right in.Usually it doesn’t matter after that.Sometimes I look back, I can remember the feeling and maybe even where I wrote it. Time is a lie, dates aren’t real, so whatever.
Sometimes I date things after I write them, that’s nice-ish. A lot of the time I leave it because I know I’ll go back and add things–I like to write the times on these days.
I don’t know why I’m writing all of this down now. I know I do that and this seems like the kind of pointless thing I might tell someone I am close with. This is the kind of small thing I want to know about. Something as insignificant makes me fall in love. It also makes me deeply sad that most of the people I know wouldn’t give two shits about this.
Where is the appreciation? Where are the tiny things special to someone besides me? I feel like Carrie Bradshaw when I end things in a question that cannot be simply answered.
These are the types of nights I want to remember. These are the moments that fill my shitty indie-movie life story. I need to remind myself to spend more time with the good ones. Be with people that make you feel there. Drink disgustingly sweet fruit juice with vodka, watch that show that makes you think about stuff and feel weird. Talk about the small things, the spider-bites and people you appreciate. Share music and experience.
“Did you grow up seeing those a lot?” He points to the smoke-trail remains of where planes once flew overhead not too long ago. I think for a moment before I reply. “Yeah, I’ve always lived pretty close to one airport or another.” It’s quiet for a moment, we both drag our cigarettes and he speaks again. “I mean, I grew up in the middle of nowhere.” Another drag. “I didn’t see a lot of those before I started going to school.” Neither of us say anything until we go back inside. I smiled. It wasn’t a significant conversation but it felt more genuine and decent than talking has in a long time. This is why Reece is good to spend time with.I always liked airplane trails.