… and here my heart lies fallow.
This couch is like the promise of asylum, which is perfectly awful because here I am busy running away and, really, what’s the point if there’s just going to be somewhere quiet to lie awake thinking at the end?
It’s not like it was working, anyway. It’s still me in here. All the change of scenery evokes is memories. It’s not new, it’s just different, and in none of the ways that matter.
This is making things worse.
I need it, don’t you fucking understand? Doesn’t the universe owe me a fucking solution, a possibility, a choice? I’m forced to exist, to go out into the world, to face it and myself and everything
And shouldn’t there be a point? Shouldn’t there be some opportunity for me to be able to get something I want? Shouldn’t there be better than an endless sea of nothing, to justify the misery of searching through it?
Or maybe I’m just a sucker for trying.
…
I try not to indulge in the bitching and moaning, in the pointless exercises of complaining about things that can’t be changed.
Right now I don’t fucking care.
These words are useless as a means to an end. They accomplish nothing when used to coerce, convince, or convey. Who’s even listening?
But maybe they’re enough to be said, maybe I can breathe now, maybe I can sleep and dream and maybe tomorrow will bring a chance for something new.
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