repost
Heat.
It's too early for this kind of night-heat, the sort that creeps in slowly like white steam from a winter pipe, or like lethal gas from the slots inside an execution gas chamber. Gently swirling 'round you like a lover's ghost, whispering in your tender ears and enveloping you in its heat like a warm electric blanket.
You've got your stereo on full blast and you don't know what to do with yourself, with this blatantly large span of time before you. You are lonely, but in a tired out way.
Loneliness starts out, in its early stages, like a ripe peach or plum. You almost relish in it, thrive in it, roll around in it like a little piggy. It is comforting, you can still dream, you may become more creative in this loneliness, for you have more time to be alone, more time to balk in the newfound world you have crafted of sad love songs and poetry and memories and reasons "why."
Then it starts to dry out, like this peach or plum, it gets sucked dry. Sometimes it literally feels like this, as though someone shoved a straw into you and sucked out your soul.
The old love songs and poetry and memories no longer supply your masochistic closet. You are blank. Like someone erased the chalkboard of your mind, or washed the grey clouded windows to your sucked-out soul.
It is hard to get up in the morning. You hear everyday people complain of this problem, but you know it is not nearly the same. They have lives, something, someone who makes them happy enough to want to look forward to, even while in the refreshing netherworld of sleep.
For you, there is nothing. And it scares you, angers you that this "nothing" is absolutely nothing.
All you desire to do is lie in bed, on the floor, somewhere, and think. All you want is to escape this nothing, so you sleep and you dream, only to wake again.
The only real way to describe this feeling, is to imagine you are slowly being baked by the sun in the Sahara desert. You are dying of thrist, of starvation. You are a prune, a peach, empty of any or all that is good anymore, like an old frail skeleton corpse of a person that used to be.
Sometimes someone is able to break through the surface of your endless abyss. It can seem rare that any such thing could happen, seeing as you have already long ago confirmed and supposedly proved your theory that you would always be alone.
Sometimes this person can be a romantic interest, sometimes just a good old platonic friend. This can't be just any old someone, or it would have happened eons ago.
They have to grab your attention, and this is usually hard to do first of all seeing as you are always wearing the clouded-over grey wrap around glasses.
There is always someone, if you just take off the glasses for just a nanosecond. There can be more than one. There can be many.
It's too early for this kind of night-heat, the sort that creeps in slowly like white steam from a winter pipe, or like lethal gas from the slots inside an execution gas chamber. Gently swirling 'round you like a lover's ghost, whispering in your tender ears and enveloping you in its heat like a warm electric blanket.
You've got your stereo on full blast and you don't know what to do with yourself, with this blatantly large span of time before you. You are lonely, but in a tired out way.
Loneliness starts out, in its early stages, like a ripe peach or plum. You almost relish in it, thrive in it, roll around in it like a little piggy. It is comforting, you can still dream, you may become more creative in this loneliness, for you have more time to be alone, more time to balk in the newfound world you have crafted of sad love songs and poetry and memories and reasons "why."
Then it starts to dry out, like this peach or plum, it gets sucked dry. Sometimes it literally feels like this, as though someone shoved a straw into you and sucked out your soul.
The old love songs and poetry and memories no longer supply your masochistic closet. You are blank. Like someone erased the chalkboard of your mind, or washed the grey clouded windows to your sucked-out soul.
It is hard to get up in the morning. You hear everyday people complain of this problem, but you know it is not nearly the same. They have lives, something, someone who makes them happy enough to want to look forward to, even while in the refreshing netherworld of sleep.
For you, there is nothing. And it scares you, angers you that this "nothing" is absolutely nothing.
All you desire to do is lie in bed, on the floor, somewhere, and think. All you want is to escape this nothing, so you sleep and you dream, only to wake again.
The only real way to describe this feeling, is to imagine you are slowly being baked by the sun in the Sahara desert. You are dying of thrist, of starvation. You are a prune, a peach, empty of any or all that is good anymore, like an old frail skeleton corpse of a person that used to be.
Sometimes someone is able to break through the surface of your endless abyss. It can seem rare that any such thing could happen, seeing as you have already long ago confirmed and supposedly proved your theory that you would always be alone.
Sometimes this person can be a romantic interest, sometimes just a good old platonic friend. This can't be just any old someone, or it would have happened eons ago.
They have to grab your attention, and this is usually hard to do first of all seeing as you are always wearing the clouded-over grey wrap around glasses.
There is always someone, if you just take off the glasses for just a nanosecond. There can be more than one. There can be many.