I feel like trudging to my town train station, taking the next random ride to God-only-knows-where, and seeing where the hell I would end up in the next one or two hours. (That would probably go particularly swell because I’m such a sheltered, clueless child… Ha.)
I am trying to get back to the person who can write endlessly about those unforgettable, canary yellow sunbeams flooding in through the slits of her window blinds that look almost exactly like the many scars that lay healing on her wrists. I am trying very hard to reach out to that same girl who could stare at those slinking shadows that spin around, almost as if they are all in some twisted, frightening ballet, on the off-white walls of her room, without getting too tired of them. Lost, senseless, and off-balanced is not how I have wanted to become during these past few months… But the numbing has taken its toll. Trying to rewind to the past where everything was branching off into new directions with limitless possibilities makes me wonder if that is still, at all, possible. I can’t quite place a finger on what this heart of mine has been saying and feeling, but all I know is that it desires to be catapulted back into this specific period of time in the past where things actually made sense and a pathway for my future was somewhat securely and happily locked. My heart sinks to the bitter, acidic bowels of my stomach with a raging anxiety when I think about what is to come and the hurdles that I have to go through to simply survive in this life. I am battling all of this, and more, by myself and I think that that’s the worst part about it… Bah, late night Easter rambles because today is supposed to be about celebrating at church with family, or being with family in general - but why am I left alone with feeling so depressed and stuck with such a shitty situation again? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel like violently vomiting chunks everywhere.
The air is so violent today, chilling me to my deepest core, and it kind of makes me wonder how things would have been if I hadn’t chosen the school that I chose to go to and the place that I call home. Days like these make my imagination go as wildly as the thrashing winter wind. How could I be so grateful for what I have and the people who I am surrounded by, but at the same time be so selfish, lonely, and stagnant in this unending spiral of despair? There is a poison that runs somewhere in the depths of my veins that should be warm, but I can’t seem to identify it or get rid of it.
I think I left too much of me with you when I decided to cut you off.
This massive downpour of rain is unsettling. It hasn’t rained in days and I can so vividly remember that the last time that it did, I was crying so harshly that all two hundred (more or less) pieces of my bones were quivering with the strangest, most unspeakable sadness. I’m really trying to get better, I really am… But maybe I’ve just been too busy with life and everyone else that I haven’t gotten the time to sit down and look at myself, hard and retrospectively like I used to. That — everything — has all been so upsetting and exhausting.
I can’t bear the aching silence, the loneliness, and the way that even my blankets don’t even stick to my skin the same way that your curious hands did. I don’t know how to control the pangs of pain that stab at the gates of my heart during the dead of night when everybody else is fast asleep and all I can hear are my own thoughts pounding down every wall that I have learned to put up. These tears come so naturally, as if my purpose in life is to be excruciatingly and eternally sad. And maybe that’s why I cried so loudly and endlessly when I was a baby reluctantly coming out of my mother’s womb, as this whole, depressing joke for this woeful life of mine.
I hate sleeping alone. I hate not having company. I hate sleep. I hate the way my mind, my thoughts, spins so crazily in these complex, convoluted circles. I’d rather stay awake for days than go through this hair pulling process of trying to exhaust myself by crying myself to sleep.
Alone, alone, alone…
Remind me not to take Red Bull and Vodka. My heart is palpitating so rapidly that I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, the fast pace of these lub dub dubs, and the way that they are constant reminders, screeching at me with an irritating voice:
YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE ALIVE.
Well, maybe I don’t want to be so alive. Maybe I don’t want these veins and blood cells and the way that I bruise so easily; what fickle human emotions and a soft sack of brittle bones. Who really wants to be alive anyways? And who really thinks that they find their lives so fanciful, so meaningful?
In the end, it’s all the same:
You come in alone and you leave alone.
What do you do when the ground gives out and your legs are trembling and everything stops speaking to you? The machines stop whirring, the blood in your body crystallizes, and even the air falls flat, static. When you can’t even suppress your frequent, seizing panic attacks because they come so often and these demons gripe at you like you’re some frittering coward.
I began to prefer the stars over the moon. The knife feels better in the dark anyways.
What if I said that I didn’t want this anymore?
I miss scooping up and hugging my knees on the black, metal chairs that have been in my backyard since I was two years old. Lighting up and smoking through my pack of Newport cigarettes that would sweetly send out its tantalizing toxins to the cumulus clouds above; the same ones that I have always made casual conversations with. And it would be somewhere between the transition from spring to summer that the golden beams from the radiating sun would weave their way into the seaweed strips of my hair, revitalizing them and stirring up the lost life in me.
When I envision the scent of summer, the grass grabbing at my scrawny ankles, and the bugs crawling out of their shelters — I think of you, always. When I first met you, where I ran into you, and how badly I wish you could be here to converse with me. But I know, deep down, that you are venturing off as well, somewhere deep within the bowels of nature, probably amongst the Massachusetts trees, with a backpack strapped behind you and your complex thoughts to keep you company.
You always knew how to fill the holes in my heart. What to say to make me feel better without coating your words without impatience, ill will or devilish intent; instead, with wise words strung together like rare pearls on a necklace.
Well, aside from you and this lovely house that I have lived in for almost all of my twenty years, I am beginning to think that I need to take some time off from here because I never quite fit right in the first place. (Like I never had a choice to be here, but I did alright regardless.) I mean — with the people, with this gut-wrenching feeling, and the way that these uneven, shifting floorboards in my house nastily creak and croak…
I should have known better, a couple years back when my sadness and loneliness hit me hard.
Hasn’t it always been the better option to keep yourself busy and going instead of thinking and waiting to see what is out there?
Try to fill in these gaping holes because you’re too lonely. Keep yourself busy because your thoughts that you have been running away from are catching up to you. Stare hard at the demons around you and distinguish whether or not you are one yourself. Keep breathing, keep thinking, and keep acting; you have a long way to go, my friend.
Tell me what your soul yearns for, what your passions are, why your eyes are so hazy and clear both at the same time, why you pull at the ends of your hair when the moon is covered by the clouds at night, how the stars make you feel so nostalgic, like you’re looking back into the exploding past, hundreds of years back, what makes you feel so alive, what your heart burns for, why you wish you could have been born in the heat of a Californian desert instead of the cold, early winter hours of Colorado, how your dad pushed you onto the cold bathroom tiles when you were five because he hated seeing you cry, why you prefer to not eat leftovers because they remind you of your tired mother packing you lunch every single day at seven in the morning during middle school, and how that makes your heart hurt and your stomach turn, and how the strokes of my soft fingers against your skin feels like the blankets that you hold so dearly on those lonely, unstable nights that I can’t be there for you —
Tell me everything and more and I promise to love you forever.