(no subject)
I leave for work in about thirty minutes. I just sat on the porch staring down the road with sick thoughts in my head. Like what if I decided to run? What if I just packed up a bag of clothes, grabbed my guitar, a notebook, my charger and my wallet and ran? Skipped work, left this apartment, left this city. Just ran. Didn't even consider driving, just running. Then I remembered my guitar is missing a string, my bank balance is running low, I wouldn't make it more than a few blocks without being out of breath, I'd give up by the edge of the city and would have to walk all the way back in time for work. I don't know what's worse: The constant battle of hope and defeat inside of me or how I always seem to lose the fight against myself.
Now I'm considering driving out of town. Hitting my dad's house for a fortnight to practice, tune my guitar and write, then driving far off. But that battle will soon be defeated by the idea of having to work. Fuck.
Through crooked yellow teeth I smile at my feet. Are they strong enough to carry me out of this city? Before the thought gains momentum, I suffer defeat. Fuck.
Now I'm considering driving out of town. Hitting my dad's house for a fortnight to practice, tune my guitar and write, then driving far off. But that battle will soon be defeated by the idea of having to work. Fuck.
Through crooked yellow teeth I smile at my feet. Are they strong enough to carry me out of this city? Before the thought gains momentum, I suffer defeat. Fuck.