This Moment
2007-09-20 - 5:52 p.m.
I paced the bleachers last night, my feet echoing on the metal, cursing the wind as I lit too many cigarettes, and why I smoked so many, I don't know. Maybe it was because of my depression as of late, or maybe it was the fact that I just didn't care whether I lived or died. I'm usually the one to lecture others on the dangers of smoking and there I was, pacing metal in bare feet, smoking one cigarette after another. Throwing them over the edge and watching the grass snuff out the flame as I hastily lit another. I talked to my best friend for almost an hour, and I wondered why I can't seem to discover who I am just yet. I think I know, but I don't know for sure. I've fallen into a labrinyth way of thinking, and now, I'm lost in the maze.
My girlfriend has a job, one in which I pretend to tighten her tie on lunch breaks, and tell her I'll see her when she gets home from work. We haven't seen each other in seven months, and yet, I still see her picture, and think I know what I remember. But the memories are growing vague, and I hate my mind for eliminating the most beautiful things, but keeping the most superficial instead. How can you cling to memories of iced teas and drugs, but not to the first moment of making love? The glow of her eyes? Some things, time refuses to eliminate, and for that I am fortunate, but other things are just dust in my memory, and the crumbles of broken memory, and the fact that I can't remember it all breaks me down harder than I remember.
I want to be happy, I want to be normal, I want to be nice, but I never seem to fit the mold. Brandon seemed to look at me like maybe he saw who I was there. I'm certain I want friends, but at what price? I still want to maintain my identity. I just need to stop breaking myself into pieces over the less than complicated things in life.
I don't want to be a cookie-cutter version of me, but walking the lonely path can indeed make one lonely.
I haven't smoked weed in a while, though it was offered to me by men in leopard shirts on couches in the backs of art galleries. I haven't drank in a few weeks, but sobriety isn't that big of a deal to me. I haven't seen Anne in forever, and maybe she's the one I need to talk to about December.
I'm starting to come unwound like a ball of twine, but it's so easy to roll me back up.
Sometimes, all it takes is a voice in the ether; sometimes, all it takes is a memory; sometimes, all it takes is a menthol.
Sometimes, I just wonder what it'd feel like to fit in for a change...
Not everyone has to draw their shades and hide out because the ink smudges on the page in front of them is becoming seven times what it is. Not everyone has to hide in a bed and avoid glancing at their phone because they know the right chick to call to get the drugs, to get the drinks, to get the kill started.
I know how to die, and I'm scared that I might impulsively die.
I can't be alone with me. I can't let others be with me. I feel hugely moody right now, and at least I'm bleeding because then it means I have a reason for the mood swings that keep me swaying like a pendulum or a boxer in a ring. I remember when he was moving out, and he said he saw my number on a piece of paper, and instead of throwing away the piece of paper, he saved it. I wonder if he ever thinks on me anymore, not that it matters because she makes me happier than he ever did. Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if I didn't wake up yesterday morning, this morning, this day, tomorrow. Would you blink and look the other way? Or would you stop and lose your breath too? He sounded noncommital, but his face looked unhappy. I bet Clint is going to have a few words with me on Tuesday. I bet Clint is going to have a fit. And I bet I won't be able to handle it if he fires me because this was my chance to show Mom I can be responsible, this was my chance to buy my way towards freedom, towards seeing Amanda, and towards paying off my education. I don't know how people cope. How people survive. How people live. With themselves. Because right now, I'm just making myself SICK. He wore a tattoo of Mickey Rooney, and yet, when I was lying in bed, scratching his back, he was telling me all the reasons he wouldn't date a girl like me. His sheets were black. He was Sicilian like me. I'm rereading old diary entries, remembering old events, old times. Dominic was a bastard, but he was a football quarterback and in the army. He's going to be a firefighter, and everyone knows that adds up to hot. And I was just trying to forget. I need to learn how to breathe again because all these backflashes are driving me sober. I keep wanting to get up and leave and bring myself nearer to you, but there's nowhere for me to go, there's nowhere to go at all. I don't have the money, the plan, the car. I had a dream with Vikings playing video games. I had a dream I bought her the wedding ring, and she told me she didn't even want to see. That I should never speak to her again, so I told her how I smoked last night. "Cigarettes?" She asked gently, knowing that because of the dream I was so goddamn sensitive. "Yeah." I whispered. She told me it was okay, but I still feel like I suck. Torn up, broken up, cut up, a thousand million pieces, I only feel whole now when I'm with you, but surely this is just a phase.
xoxo,
Me.