Survival.
I'm tired of the almosts and what-ifs. I'm tired of regret of my insecurities. Wishing I had done things differently. Seeing people makes me tired. Seeing beautiful people makes me even more tired. The connections that could have been and the connections that were had never really seemed to line up for me. And I still crave the connections that were bad for me. The ones that let me drown in my sorrow. Someone to drown in my sorrow with and keep the process going. Someone to understand what it's like to completely hate everything and everyone and to feel like giving up.
A body that wants to give up. Exhausted far too soon into this life. Always in pain. Always aching. Always yearning for something more. More movement. More action. More progress. More success. And sinking into this bed, instead. Rolling in these sheets and staring into this dark room. Opening up windows to let the light in, but only lasting for a few hours before withering back into bed. Mind going a million miles a minute. But being too tired to even let that out. Too tired to write. Too tired to paint. Too tired to express. Ideas and ideas wasted. Thoughts and processes lost.
A brain that fights me every day. Sending me signals that I should cut my wrists. That I should cut my arms off to stop me from cutting my wrists. Self-destructive id impulses. I fight just to survive in my own body. I fight to remain conscious enough not to let it kill me while my world fogs around me. A restless haze. And me, swinging through it clumsily, trying to find my place.
I do not think I'm truly conscious most of the time. I think I slide around this world, falling over things and mumbling half-truths. And I do it with a passion to compensate for the apathy that is really there. The disconnection. The letting go's. The almosts. The what-ifs.
Time passes. And I've done nothing that society would think is productive. A lot of electric activity flowing through my brain and sparking ideas and thinking and gathering. But nothing tangible. I'm just fighting to survive in a world where I don't belong. Fighting to survive. That basic primal instinct.
A body that wants to give up. Exhausted far too soon into this life. Always in pain. Always aching. Always yearning for something more. More movement. More action. More progress. More success. And sinking into this bed, instead. Rolling in these sheets and staring into this dark room. Opening up windows to let the light in, but only lasting for a few hours before withering back into bed. Mind going a million miles a minute. But being too tired to even let that out. Too tired to write. Too tired to paint. Too tired to express. Ideas and ideas wasted. Thoughts and processes lost.
A brain that fights me every day. Sending me signals that I should cut my wrists. That I should cut my arms off to stop me from cutting my wrists. Self-destructive id impulses. I fight just to survive in my own body. I fight to remain conscious enough not to let it kill me while my world fogs around me. A restless haze. And me, swinging through it clumsily, trying to find my place.
I do not think I'm truly conscious most of the time. I think I slide around this world, falling over things and mumbling half-truths. And I do it with a passion to compensate for the apathy that is really there. The disconnection. The letting go's. The almosts. The what-ifs.
Time passes. And I've done nothing that society would think is productive. A lot of electric activity flowing through my brain and sparking ideas and thinking and gathering. But nothing tangible. I'm just fighting to survive in a world where I don't belong. Fighting to survive. That basic primal instinct.