18.10.03 - 9:22 PM
Here's the thing.
I can barely come back to this place without remembering things that I should be trying to forget. I can barely look at this place without seeing the familiarity of the soft purple and the yellow and the pink and remembering things that I don't want anymore. Remembering things that I should be letting go.
Every time I come back here it's like walking backwards into a speeding car. It's like watching my body careen into the pavement and spread for miles clean across. It's mental suicide.
Here's another thing.
I feel like fucking shit. Everything makes me angry to the point where I'm a quivering sack of shit crying out every drop of water I've ever had in me with sore knuckles and broken glass surrounding me.
Nothing is enough.
I scream into pillows but what the fuck. I want to hear my echo, I want to hear my screams relayed back to me as though there is someone out there who feels like this. As though there's someone screaming back because we're both going to shit and we've got each other.
Here's a third thing.
No matter what fucking instant messenger program I have or who I have on it or who's in my adress book I can't find a single person to talk to. Everybody is either busy or I can't bring myself to do it because I don't want to fuck up their balance. I don't want to add dismay. I don't want to be a burden.
This lack of communication is becoming so redundant and so constant that I maybe haven't had a decent talk with anyone for weeks and that: scares me. I'm sitting here going out of my mind thinking that all of this pent up emotion is going to drive me up a freeway and down into the pavement.
And still. I do nothing but fuck shit up. Fuck up the objects in my room, the walls, my knuckles, my hair, my vocal chords. There's so much destruction and it's still not enough. I will tear down the world before anything becomes enough.
