(no subject)
I'm staring at my reflection, watching with detachment as my beard is shrinking. I'm lost in the sound of the razor and I'm not all here sometimes. I lay in bed in the dark and I wonder about people I know, far flung, distant in the night sky. I think about the stars crashing down upon us and I don't know how to feel anymore. There are moments when the old emptiness makes me drain out of myself, I can feel it running down some dark and secret drain, a place where I used to dwell. I'm drowning sometimes, filling up with all these emotions and I'm not used to it, but it is nice. It's so very nice.
The weather was been nice recently, my eyes don't ache when I look skyward and I feel out of sync, a moment or two when I'm changing over the film reels and there is a slight stutter. A bird call will blossom from a tree in the distance and fall in on itself, it will echo in a place I will never exist and it comes out into the space I occupy. The sound, the light, the warmth, it feels weird, makes me feel something jarring and comforting. I have new pangs, pangs for the feelings of sadness, of loneliness that would overtake me and make me sit in my room in the dark, listening to myself have a nervous breakdown.
I don't miss being the wreck I was, but it feels so different sometimes, it doesn't make sense on occasion, as if I'm missing a big part of the story and I swear it should be different, but the page numbers are in sequence. I'm packing up all the things that used to whisper terrible things in my sleep and putting them in the attic, I'll let them sit there for a while and think about what they've done to me.
I'm still moody and I still sleep too much, but it's not the sleep of someone losing their mind. I no longer dream of titanic beasts emerging from some blood ocean, screaming out the names of my ex girlfriends. I don't dream of falling into a vast maze and being chased by myself, except I'm skinnier, happier and covered in the scalps of all the people I don't care about. I don't dream about violence, or a sexual desperation that is only expressed by my teeth and hair falling out. I don't dream all these terrible things because I feel more human than I did a year ago.
I still am a mess, but it's only half a sink of sad, ruinous dishes.
The weather was been nice recently, my eyes don't ache when I look skyward and I feel out of sync, a moment or two when I'm changing over the film reels and there is a slight stutter. A bird call will blossom from a tree in the distance and fall in on itself, it will echo in a place I will never exist and it comes out into the space I occupy. The sound, the light, the warmth, it feels weird, makes me feel something jarring and comforting. I have new pangs, pangs for the feelings of sadness, of loneliness that would overtake me and make me sit in my room in the dark, listening to myself have a nervous breakdown.
I don't miss being the wreck I was, but it feels so different sometimes, it doesn't make sense on occasion, as if I'm missing a big part of the story and I swear it should be different, but the page numbers are in sequence. I'm packing up all the things that used to whisper terrible things in my sleep and putting them in the attic, I'll let them sit there for a while and think about what they've done to me.
I'm still moody and I still sleep too much, but it's not the sleep of someone losing their mind. I no longer dream of titanic beasts emerging from some blood ocean, screaming out the names of my ex girlfriends. I don't dream of falling into a vast maze and being chased by myself, except I'm skinnier, happier and covered in the scalps of all the people I don't care about. I don't dream about violence, or a sexual desperation that is only expressed by my teeth and hair falling out. I don't dream all these terrible things because I feel more human than I did a year ago.
I still am a mess, but it's only half a sink of sad, ruinous dishes.