warning sign
The truth is, I'm barely getting by.
Daytime is not a problem. I have things to do, a routine--class, work, homework, reading, friends. It is interesting sometimes, but really only a convenient facade to keep up so my mother will not worry. Much. She is no idiot. When I am alone at night, and I feel like there is no one I can talk to, when I am still hurt and still missing-- I feel like a clockwork doll. Wind the key in the morning and go all day, but as the light fades and the gears slow, I shudder to a stop and slump over, a hand propping my chin, and think of ways to change things and discard them, one by one. Don't want to fool myself any more than I already do. I stare like a dimwit at a blank screen, or a blank page, or a site, or a book, and gaze without seeing. I take in meaningless trivia, but I am really searching for any sign of a certain presence, a certain turn of phrase, a certain photograph. Some vestige of his passing. A stolen conversation, careless on his end, baited breath on mine; a few minutes can sustain me for a day, or grant a full night's sleep. It is pathetic and part of me thinks, If only my usually sufficient, habitual self-loathing could outshine this desperate, foolish wish...pull yourself out of this hole! I can see a rope, but I cannot reach it. I am too short, the joke is on me.
It has happened before and I am sure it will happen again, but gods, I just want to breathe easily again, I want my nights to be mine and not just something I hide myself in; I want this wretched hope to die, or come to fruition.
I need a breeze to tip me out of this calm sea. Or a storm.
Daytime is not a problem. I have things to do, a routine--class, work, homework, reading, friends. It is interesting sometimes, but really only a convenient facade to keep up so my mother will not worry. Much. She is no idiot. When I am alone at night, and I feel like there is no one I can talk to, when I am still hurt and still missing-- I feel like a clockwork doll. Wind the key in the morning and go all day, but as the light fades and the gears slow, I shudder to a stop and slump over, a hand propping my chin, and think of ways to change things and discard them, one by one. Don't want to fool myself any more than I already do. I stare like a dimwit at a blank screen, or a blank page, or a site, or a book, and gaze without seeing. I take in meaningless trivia, but I am really searching for any sign of a certain presence, a certain turn of phrase, a certain photograph. Some vestige of his passing. A stolen conversation, careless on his end, baited breath on mine; a few minutes can sustain me for a day, or grant a full night's sleep. It is pathetic and part of me thinks, If only my usually sufficient, habitual self-loathing could outshine this desperate, foolish wish...pull yourself out of this hole! I can see a rope, but I cannot reach it. I am too short, the joke is on me.
It has happened before and I am sure it will happen again, but gods, I just want to breathe easily again, I want my nights to be mine and not just something I hide myself in; I want this wretched hope to die, or come to fruition.
I need a breeze to tip me out of this calm sea. Or a storm.
posted by Veritas at 10:54 AM
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