This is something I wrote last night….
I sit here listening to soppy half aggressive love songs with lyrics such as “see the flames inside my eyes” crying those eyes out with no control. I have lost it; I have lost my balance that I just spent the past sixteen months trying to achieve. Here I sit drinking in bed scared to move, tipping over the edge of sanity. My silly brain is sending me messages of where the scissors are in my room, the penknife in my bedside draw. Why won’t this sickness just leave me? Why am I just not allowed to be better? What have I done to deserve all of this pain and confusion? Why just why!
I am now terrified of my travels that I was previously ecstatic for. It is not fair. Self-pity is washing through me. As you can tell.
I wish I could write songs, intense short moments of exposing my pain and being free of it. I feel like writing my story is a lullaby-luscious song, I just cannot be as free from it as quickly as I could if I wrote a song instead. Although there is that big issue with the fact that I cannot sing. Fuck
my life. Seriously just fuck it right now.