i know it's a day, and the day is long, and tomorrow could be better. it's not bad yet. isn't that a blessing.
but now, in the light i do not feel; it is december. i have started to fade around my edges. i am uncoupled. scuffed. i am teething on the rim of the worst drink; the particle board of my wrists too heavy for humor.
where has the time gone? how the fuck am i awake right now? why am i so tired, no matter how much i sleep?
yesterday; a delicious new england pleasure. my next door neighbor moved in at the same time i did. he's from california. i see him shivering in a non-lined (!) zip-up. "holy shit it's cold," he says.
it's a warm 35F. i feel myself wolfish. grew up around here. am only wearing one pair of gloves. "oh, this isn't cold," i say. "just you wait." in boston, there's a running joke. you'll know a bostonian not from harvard yard but from the pronunciation of fucking cold. i tell my neighbor - the trick is a good coat.
this isn't cold. i could be worse. i also know it will be worse. that, come februrary, i will be so melted at the seams that no one will be able to restitch me. i have done this in so many cataclysmic winters. not even sad; just ... slow. tired. unmoving. nothing serves to wake me up anymore. it passes over my hands in little sheets. i'd rather be asleep.
i buy myself a thick coat. i do my laundry. i force myself from room to room like a dream; through each aggravated self-care monotony. apply myself to trying. my personality is sick and diluted with anxiety. in stores, the holiday music is suddenly jarring. what the fuck do you mean it's december? it feels like...
like nothing. like i am just here, without meaning to be. i tell my therapist - i keep feeling like i missed the save point. like i was supposed to restart something, and i kept playing, and now the game is spinning out into nothing.
it'll get worse! what a good joke. it's not even that bad yet.
but fuck. isn't it tiring.
stormborns
vaporwave
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
titsay
