i been changin channels
I'm so tired.
I'm so tired....
I've been falling asleep almost every day in the union, waking with a start every fifteen minutes or so to take a disoriented glance at my phone, then closing my eyes because they won't stay open and finding myself really falling asleep- not a light nap at all but deep, black sleep, losing any concept of time or space or the people around me who could so easily lift my laptop or my backpack or my book and I'd never so much as twitch, my face buried in black leather and painted the tight dark bluish grays of exhaustion.
Emotionally, I am silent again. I sit here, my eyes dangerously near to half-mast, for some reason turning pages in the journal we shared. I remember so much, but reading it now his words have changed colors.
I was wrapped so tightly in the hope that those words gave, in the possibilities.
Reading them now it seems, really seems, as though I'm pilfering through a distant acquaintance's words to someone else. These words don't connect to me now; I can't find myself in the frequent "him"s and "he"s and "his".
It's back to being a faded dream, but sometimes something will catch me off guard, and I feel a place- just this one place- still soft, tender, glistening wet and vulnerable to every breathless current of aching memory. As if from hundreds of miles away I feel it hurt.
And I turn away.
I'm so tired inside, too.
Last night my little spazz texted me and I smiled and thought that maybe I would be okay.
I'm reading something ironic.
"Words, to me, are everything- how could I lie with them?" it says. "...this is the most honest time in my life...", "this is me".
and then a sentence that startles me with its clarity of premonition: "you think I'm too good to be true."
Yes.
You were. I was right.
...it kills me to read this. I can't feel it now, but there is a vague, muffled something in the pit of my stomach, hands pressed over its mouth like Mafia torture as I realize the depth, the enormity of what I am reading: I will never meet anyone like that again. I will never find anything like that again.
It's over.
"Too good to be true" is, when it comes to what we were, a real fucking understatement. So far under that it's on top of fucking China, or somewhere far enough away to emphasize my point: too good to be true, too good, way too good, so fucking good that I should have known, I should have seen it coming. Haven't I always said that I couldn't keep anything truly good in my life, that I know I'll lose it eventually? And aren't I always, always right about that at least?
I'm falling asleep on the keys again. God, I was so exhausted when I woke up this morning that I almost started to cry. When my mother told me to get up I actually said "Why?" and when she replied, "School" I nearly wept. I sank onto my bed and felt every ounce of strength leave me completely.
I have a test today; I have 1847 today; I have an overwhelming desire to skip the fuck out.
I keep reading and certain sentences, certain words flare up and I think, how did you keep it up? How did you do that so well, so naturally, so fluidly?
It almost makes me question whether you really are what you say you're not, if you're not what you say you are...I don't know. Who are you?
Why does reading this make me think fleetingly of Caleb?
Caleb. When I'm better...
I'll talk to you about it over MSN.
I just fell asleep for twenty minutes.
I am so tired.
I'm so tired....
I've been falling asleep almost every day in the union, waking with a start every fifteen minutes or so to take a disoriented glance at my phone, then closing my eyes because they won't stay open and finding myself really falling asleep- not a light nap at all but deep, black sleep, losing any concept of time or space or the people around me who could so easily lift my laptop or my backpack or my book and I'd never so much as twitch, my face buried in black leather and painted the tight dark bluish grays of exhaustion.
Emotionally, I am silent again. I sit here, my eyes dangerously near to half-mast, for some reason turning pages in the journal we shared. I remember so much, but reading it now his words have changed colors.
I was wrapped so tightly in the hope that those words gave, in the possibilities.
Reading them now it seems, really seems, as though I'm pilfering through a distant acquaintance's words to someone else. These words don't connect to me now; I can't find myself in the frequent "him"s and "he"s and "his".
It's back to being a faded dream, but sometimes something will catch me off guard, and I feel a place- just this one place- still soft, tender, glistening wet and vulnerable to every breathless current of aching memory. As if from hundreds of miles away I feel it hurt.
And I turn away.
I'm so tired inside, too.
Last night my little spazz texted me and I smiled and thought that maybe I would be okay.
I'm reading something ironic.
"Words, to me, are everything- how could I lie with them?" it says. "...this is the most honest time in my life...", "this is me".
and then a sentence that startles me with its clarity of premonition: "you think I'm too good to be true."
Yes.
You were. I was right.
...it kills me to read this. I can't feel it now, but there is a vague, muffled something in the pit of my stomach, hands pressed over its mouth like Mafia torture as I realize the depth, the enormity of what I am reading: I will never meet anyone like that again. I will never find anything like that again.
It's over.
"Too good to be true" is, when it comes to what we were, a real fucking understatement. So far under that it's on top of fucking China, or somewhere far enough away to emphasize my point: too good to be true, too good, way too good, so fucking good that I should have known, I should have seen it coming. Haven't I always said that I couldn't keep anything truly good in my life, that I know I'll lose it eventually? And aren't I always, always right about that at least?
I'm falling asleep on the keys again. God, I was so exhausted when I woke up this morning that I almost started to cry. When my mother told me to get up I actually said "Why?" and when she replied, "School" I nearly wept. I sank onto my bed and felt every ounce of strength leave me completely.
I have a test today; I have 1847 today; I have an overwhelming desire to skip the fuck out.
I keep reading and certain sentences, certain words flare up and I think, how did you keep it up? How did you do that so well, so naturally, so fluidly?
It almost makes me question whether you really are what you say you're not, if you're not what you say you are...I don't know. Who are you?
Why does reading this make me think fleetingly of Caleb?
Caleb. When I'm better...
I'll talk to you about it over MSN.
I just fell asleep for twenty minutes.
I am so tired.