(no subject)
I'm glad no one was here when I got home because I'm afraid the significance that's just barely eluding my conscious thought would be wasted in the space between words if I was forced to make polite conversation.
I'm in dire need of nourishment and hydration and niccotine, but the only thing I could do when I got here was crack a beer and write. I doubt any of this is even slightly important, but for some reason when I was walking home barefooted and silent it seemed that way.
the weather is really violent right now, extremely hot and brutally windy. there are so many subtle parallels between this summer and last.
last summer was all questions. new experiences and kisses and worn skate shoes. carhartts and sealab and brass monkeys and thunderstorms. cold showers and private moments caught on the fringes in the grass outside the windows. hiding and guilt and overwhelming pleasure.
this summer is more like answers. solitude and bare feet and reflection. dark beer and darker bars and books that I never seem to have time to finish. quarts of water a day and sometimes even enough food. living for the moment the sun goes down and I can sit on the porch with a beer and listen to the sounds of the suburbs going to sleep.
I think my dad and I are trying to hide the fact that we're depressed from each other. sometimes we talk for hours and it seems a little too manic, and little too happy to be real. we pick at our food while we talk about how delicious it is and spend hours sleeping in the afternoon while we pretend to be reading or watching tv.
maybe I should make an effort to be happy again but lately I've just been so tired. I can sleep any time of the day or night without effort. sometimes I fall asleep watching tv in the afternoon. I eat without enthusiasm, I barely get down 3 cigarettes a day. the only thing that's getting better is my guitar playing and my reading comprehension.
I need something, but I don't know if I'll ever figure out what it is.
I'm in dire need of nourishment and hydration and niccotine, but the only thing I could do when I got here was crack a beer and write. I doubt any of this is even slightly important, but for some reason when I was walking home barefooted and silent it seemed that way.
the weather is really violent right now, extremely hot and brutally windy. there are so many subtle parallels between this summer and last.
last summer was all questions. new experiences and kisses and worn skate shoes. carhartts and sealab and brass monkeys and thunderstorms. cold showers and private moments caught on the fringes in the grass outside the windows. hiding and guilt and overwhelming pleasure.
this summer is more like answers. solitude and bare feet and reflection. dark beer and darker bars and books that I never seem to have time to finish. quarts of water a day and sometimes even enough food. living for the moment the sun goes down and I can sit on the porch with a beer and listen to the sounds of the suburbs going to sleep.
I think my dad and I are trying to hide the fact that we're depressed from each other. sometimes we talk for hours and it seems a little too manic, and little too happy to be real. we pick at our food while we talk about how delicious it is and spend hours sleeping in the afternoon while we pretend to be reading or watching tv.
maybe I should make an effort to be happy again but lately I've just been so tired. I can sleep any time of the day or night without effort. sometimes I fall asleep watching tv in the afternoon. I eat without enthusiasm, I barely get down 3 cigarettes a day. the only thing that's getting better is my guitar playing and my reading comprehension.
I need something, but I don't know if I'll ever figure out what it is.