Breathe Deep, Hold It In
Friday for the first time in a long time I'm going to go out with nothing but vodka and recklessness in mind.
I'm here on day three, and my body is slowly rebelling from a straight diet of Cuervo, Wine, a single piece of pizza and all the most self-damaging introspections of your nightmares. There has got to be some point of letting go. Fresh as it is the ringing in my mind must stop enough for me to function again. It's my theory, anyway.
I used to trip alot, ALOT. I always had the subtle wonder of thinking with the fifth hit, or when I was particularly brave the tenth in a row.
"Will this change the world forever, will my perception be altered, unalterably?"
That is this, on a cellular level.
I see no benefit in raging, in twisting. By now if nothing's snapped and nothing's healed I realize this is obviously not the way to achieve either end. Instead I make an appointment to view an apartment and try desperately to semi-amicably retrieve my things. If I look inside there is something staring back at me, and I recognise him, and I fear him. I have to look out, look up, look on, look anywhere.
It occurs to me that all of my friends were actually hers. Long blonde hair and a body like that I suppose I get it. If I can resist the urge to rip and tear at them long enough I realise I'm actually excited, all old faces stern and cold I turn my back to find a waiting world. It's an inkling of hope drifting like a ducks feather on a calm lake. It's fragile, but it is undeniable.
And all this madness swirls at the outer edge, reaching in, but blown back by sheer will. One more breath and then I can go mad. Just get through to the next breath and we'll worry about it then.
I need to dance, Wyldly.
I need to walk, distantly.
I need to breathe, constantly.
All must lead me somewhere, and anywhere is better than here.