I find myself stealing away from familiar streets. To feel that little bubble of fear as it bursts into adrenaline and races through my cosseted veins. Safety. I feel. That somehow I am allowing a precious treasure to slip from my grip. Delighting in it. I wonder if it's just demons tempting me into murky waters. Doubting my ability to decipher messages of sabotage for those of ambition.
Before work in the morning, I leave the train early just to get lost.
Not caring for exhaustion, lack of rest has settled now that I have left mere tiredness and passed into delirium. I have to be alone. Most people only cause irritation. No matter how hard I try to be saintly.
I cannot shake the feeling of wanting to place my hands around various necks and...
I'm frustrated with "discussion" all I want is silence. Why must everyone speak so much?
"What do I know of real exhaustion?! " I exclaim...silently. Back, standing on the train to work.
Old Street...Angel....my eyelids quiver.
Fuck. I really am so tired. Waves of it wash over me. I lose my focus. Get a little giddy.
Then get a little sad.
I see it- that I wanted to feel spent. That I embraced this over-work.
No, I don't let myself drift into that area for too long...
"Hmm...maybe that's where some of this exhaustion is coming from?" I let myself see briefly an answer I will not let sink in. I don't know whether I am sad because I'm tired, or so fucking tired because I'm working so hard not to accept this little whirl of blue that cuts through me ever so often.
Lost in music when I walk. Distraction whispers through every tree and every graffiti painted wall.
Photos, I need to take photos. I'm busy...I'm busy all the time.
I can't even take a fucking bath. I sit there as the water drains and have the time to see it all.
My selfish flesh shivers away. And I just don't give a shit anymore. I cry and it hurts. Hurts so much that I can't allow it. That's the whole point of all this bloody distraction. - I'm a bastard.
So, quick showers it is from now until this thing is resolved....
I scroll through pages and pages of rooms, flats I can't yet afford to leave to.
I wanted a home. So I made one. And now it's all ripped to pieces.
I wonder upon the myriad of stories my mind weaves for me. Loneness. My body seeks it out.
When I run, all the trust I have for my own bones seeps out. My marrow is built of secrets.
For a year, maybe- we had it. He had me. And yet. My head involuntarily hangs writing the line.
I tried. Tried to let all these layers unfurl. But these demons bubble up. And I know that something in me needs to be broken- or released? I know that I can not merely put this down to us being wrong for each other. Or maybe it's just that I have to find a way to blame myself. It comes as naturally to me as breathing. If only he had wanted to know what had happened to me before him. If...if...if.
I don't think any of it matters.
Secrets. All these secrets pull at our threads. And everything falls apart.