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I never like to eat much, but I’ve got this endless hunger, a screaming appetite for being sad, wasting time. I think my biggest fear is I’m not quite sad enough to write anything good. So I wait patiently for some terrible thing to finally leave me crumbling. What I think I need and what I know I need are two separate things. I’m in this weird place now in my life, too old to think I’m too young to be satisfied. Never happy to just be fucking happy. I spent the night looking through old pictures. I found some of when I was miserable and taped them to the wall.
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2. |
Flanking
02:48
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I think I need to get a little bit better at a couple things, like understanding that I’m not the only person in the world who is depressed. Who can’t see anything’s worth a damn. And when I’m in a mood, I think about how I’m probably just a spoiled fucking brat, and it’s really not that goddamn bad. I should probably get over it. I’m in a dead sprint toward an unnatural end. A fourth car radio blew, and now I’m not sure what to do with my hands while I’m driving. I think I need to get a little bit better at noticing the little things, like how the sky is mottled pale blue, gold, and white. I think I saw an airplane passing through a cloud and thought about the people looking down on me. But I’m not the only person in the world. A fourth car radio blew and I’m not sure I want to keep going.
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3. |
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Another late night, running outside, amok. The ghost of myself at eighteen years old has been kicking up shit, pissing on trees, egging houses. Back then I knew the only way to feel better was to steal a 40 ounce, crawl through that broken fence by the abandoned shopping mall, drink until I threw up, smash the bottle, rinse, repeat. Back then I knew the only thing that really mattered was how hard I had it. No one really got me. I was seventeen years old, counting down the days til I could be out on my own. Although I felt ugly, I somehow managed to convince myself I owned everything. And you all. Kicking up shit, pissing on trees, egging houses. But then I think I mustered up the self respect to send away that ghost and all those fucked up things that I was saying to myself every single day. I think I got it right. Finally, I think I got it right this time. You see, the problem was I hadn’t hit rock bottom yet. Although, when I wake up and nothing’s happened yet, I have such a hard time being sure that things will get better. When I wake up still drunk from the night before, it’s hard to start over. It’s hard to feel better. Mostly empty mugs of cold coffee stain the table, making rings like Venn Diagrams comparing every day. I find it so hard to distinguish the days. I find it so hard to feel good about me.
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4. |
Low Light Vision
03:42
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When everything starts spinning. Eyes start sliding toward the bathroom door. It’s locked to keep everyone outside from noticing I’m about to die. If you were here you’d tell me to stop being so melodramatic. I think I could shake this, I think I could hold on a bit longer for you. You say that everyone’s human and that we’re all trying to do the best we can, but I say I’m at my best when I can keep hurting myself and everyone I love. I still think sometimes about that poem by Dickinson. You were right. I don’t know anything about loss. I can’t compare you breaking up with me with the grief that Emily must have felt when she wrote “Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.”
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5. |
What Can I Do Here?
03:29
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I think that I know you as well as I can. Just about as much as a few verses of poetry written in tenth grade that I’ve been re-reading for years. It’s terrible, I know, but I remember how I felt at fifteen. I finally said something. Familiar as a book that’s not left my bedside in ten years. I know you like a saccharine sweet pop song I’ve been humming out of key all day. I see you when I close my eyes. Is that cliche? That’s okay. I need you to be comfortable when you spread out on my couch. Familiar as a book that’s not left my bedside in ten years. I know you like the taste of stolen liquor from my father’s cabinet. When we were just drunk kids, getting into shit, I knew even then I wanted to marry you. I think that I know you as well as I can. I keep on singing out of key all day. “This life is a dream,” I wrote. “I remember the day I fell asleep. When I met you, everything changed.” It’s terrible, I know, but I remember how I felt at fifteen. I still feel the same way.
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Colporteur Huntington Beach, California
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