stopped cutting; restarted drinking. except for tonight, when i have both cut and am drunk.
writers block. stream of consciousness.
critical essay for a creative writing course.
can’t sleep. i go running in the dark, by which i mean to say, i go running in the wee hours of the morning and also i run on the unlit side of the footpath since i feel more at home in the dark.
i’m always running from something. when will i have something worth running toward?
i should probably go back to therapy, but things are fine, things are good – it’s all comparative, right? and i’m not suicidal, so things are fine? i’m waking up, i’m going to work, i’m not in the hospital, i’m safe. so why do i feel so bad? why don’t i feel safe? my own mind is a maze, it’s a trap. i don’t get it.
i don’t get it. idontgetit.
i read somewhere that for alt text and the visually impaired, capital letters are really important. so #idontgetit looks like gibberish but #IDon’tGetIt makes perfect sense. well, i just don’t get it; what about those of us who have eschewed punctuation and grammar for #theaesthetic?
i was hoping that some word vomit would kickstart my brain and i could get some essay done (i keep telling myself i’ll ‘smash it out tomorrow’ but i tomorrow keeps coming and and going and the due date just keeps coming and coming and coming) but it’s just making me sad instead. or maybe that’s the vodka. it’s hard to tell, tbh.
i wonder about being a lucid dreamer. i wonder about inception, remember that? sometimes, i can’t tell if this is real. i don’t know if this is real. idontknowifthisisreal. IDon’tKnowIfThisIsReal.
we’ll have to check. we’ll have to die, because then if i wake up, then i will know it was all a dream.
i don’t like being sick.
i wish i had some drugs.
i wish i had someone to hold me close, and snuggle me with their nose and their warm breath, nudge the hair from my nose, and whisper in my ear
it’s going to be alright my love.