"Melancholy" in the rain.
Wishing. Hissing under my breath.
Swearing and changing and I realise my thinking is a narrative in my Mother's voice.
What I plan & hope & hate & fear all in the distance,
are actually here. Right now.
My outdated future plans have caught up with my age.
How could I have ignored my head for so long?
I am proud and upset. I've succeeded in this betrayal.
Have made things mildly worse for the sobriety to sort out.
One thing I've actually done well in, however.
I've limited the shame. No pain- no fucking gain.
--
--
Magnetised. Drawn to the dark. moth and lightbulb.
Oddly comforting. Semi-closed eyes.
Such a physical experienceand yet such a nonexistent cause.
I'm set. Craving self-destruction.
Intensity that is related to blowing your head off with internally directed energy.
I describe,, and describe,,, and describe. My description the only skill I now truly possess. The rest of me, encaptured in the thoughts, is making love to itself, somewhere between Interpol, the realisation of wet socks, and planning the next deep, deadly drag of the scheduled cigarette.
Wish i could loop-in a cool way. Like in music videos. Like in my recollections of a dream. Half-constructed -half lied about. Wish I could flop my head over, the way I feel like doing -and it would look cool. The way I romantically see it.
I love the similarities (and hate them too) between real life & my head version.
I hate to be abnormal.
I hate I'm not a teenager.
I hate it when I don't understand.
I hate the twat above my shoulder on the bus. fuckoff.
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