Hum.
I feel like everyone's waiting for me to make a move, imprecise and uncalculated, like the move of a chess player who has taken part in a game that has droned on for much too long, mind weak, nerves bending, willing him to just give up.
But perfectionism allows me little to no impulse. It allows me nothing but numbers and thoughts and organization. It allows me nothing but pure hell, and although I have relished in such torture throughout the years, I am barely surviving in it now. Every calorie must me counted, every assignment must be genious, every "i" must be dotted in a perfect linear heaven that can only be executed properly after a handful of tries; and if not, I have failed.
I woke up this morning, dreaming about being in the car, on the highway, a million red and blue lights bubbling up around me, and it felt nice. Comforting that, after all of this time, I can still feel infinite while I am driving at night, with a beautiful song blaring through the speakers. But they are more than speakers and this song is more than a song. For a moment, everyone in the world is listening to the hum of Morrissey. For a moment, we are all on the same metaphorical page, and there is no need for numbers or thoughts or organization.
But the song ends, the car runs out of gas.
I feel like everyone's waiting for me to make a move.