What
was I doing with my life? I spent all day wasting away in front of one
screen or another, to accomplish nothing at all. I lurked out profiles
of people I thought I knew, and others I only pretended to, but what was
it all for? To sate some form of boredom? No, if I wanted to do that,
I'm sure a back road through the darkness and the rest of my gas tank
could've helped out more. I could've burned another mix c.d. and claimed
the black road as my own for about an hour, screaming at the top of my
lungs, until my voice decided to give on me. The fact was that I was
alone, nothing could cure that. Sure, I could've went out and got a
sympathy fuck from some girl I charmed into bed, but in the morning I'd
feel sick with myself and even more pathetic than I already did.
It
was just that my mind kept floating back to things that didn't matter. I
kept thinking about how life was so good two weeks previous. Heavenly,
even. Now, it had turned into a shit factory of assumption. I had only
myself to blame for taking it as far as it went, and I kept going,
jogging down that street after the lights blew. And here I find myself
in proverbial darkness to sit and cry, and pretend that I didn't feel
anything. I felt it all, though. Not only Majolie's fresh wounds that
had just been visit on my heart and ego, but Nico, and Shy, and even as
far back as Myles. She had started my descent into failure and
rejection, and since then I haven't been able to dig myself back out.
I've gotten a few times of high on love, but it wasn't really that as
much as infatuation, thinking that this is the one that would break my
slump. This would be the one to change my life forever. I'd marry her,
and that would be that. Even the third charm didn't do it for me. The
third real shot at something real.
Now,
I just sit and count my fingers and toes; a countdown to tomorrow, and
the day after that, and the day after that. Either waiting for my life
to really begin, or waiting for it to end, it doesn't matter which.
Sometimes I wonder how, exactly, I become so dependent after proving to
myself that I can be a self sufficient person. My weakness, I guess.
That's all it ever is, I feel too much. It's a tough front that's broken
down all too easily by just sweet words and a pretty face. I'd done it
too many times myself to others. Now my curse is to bake in my own
wretched misgivings. It's karma, and sometimes she's a harsh bitch.
Kicks aimed for the balls, and a tight grip on the throat. It's not the
torture that bothers me as for the lack of pay off. Sure I've had my
words handed to me on a silver platter, those limber beautiful words,
that don't know how to stop dancing. I could weave them once, in a time
that I didn't feel anything. Everyone was just a toy for my amusement,
and friends were a dime a dozen. Since I respect people now, care about
how they feel, go back to being a genuinely good person; the bile I fed
everyone from my old life comes back to me in a new way.
So
what now? Do I throw myself a pity party with one guest on the list? Do
I mull everything over in my head, until the weight of the situation
finds a way to push all the food from this afternoon up through my
mouth? My stomach's sick already, from missing Majolie, do I really need
that extra push? It's the first real thing I've eaten in a day and now
my own mind betrays me, and wants to deny anything I need. It's
convinced itself that what I need is love. Love is just a blindfold at
your own death sentence. It's nothing nice and dreamy, its hell. The
worst part of hell, I might add, as well. You get high from it, change
everything around in your head. Lose sight of what really matters to
you. Then it all crashes down. Becomes some sort of addiction. And when
you crash from that high, you can't even taste food anymore, you can't
enjoy masturbation, you can't even fucking watch a god damn TV show
without relating it on your failed attempt at building something great.
You don't focus on the real things, you focus on it, it consumes you,
molds you into something repulsive. A cynical asshole of a critic,
puckered and vomiting. Hopefully, you've got enough left in you to pick
yourself up again. Hopefully, you'll have something to give to someone
else. Maybe you do, maybe you're stronger than you thought. But each
time, it's more and more unlikely. Each time, you have a little less to
give, until you all dry. What then? Do you hope you meet someone that
replenishes you? Someone that doesn't care about your scars, just wants
to soothe you, hold you, and be everything all those other girls just
pretended to be?
It's
bullshit anyway, no one's ever that nice, no one will ever stick their
neck out that far. You have to prove yourself. You have to pay in first,
write out a guarantee and sign it in your blood. Also, you can't forget
an expiration date of never, just as a vote of confidence. Still,
though, sometimes that's not enough, no matter how hard you try,
someone's beat you to the punch of fucking things up completely. Now
whatever reputation you've build for yourself, it doesn't matter. The
people that vouch for you, they're your friends. The people that have a
good opinion of you, known you for a while, and stick up for you, well,
they don't count because they're already on your side. So you want to
prove yourself, but hell, no one's got the time to let you do that.
What's the fucking point? They'll lose what little interest they have by
then, and it's all fucked anyway.
So
what was I to do? Complain? Be an asshole about? Or just forget it ever
happened? Count my losses and move forward with what pathetic life I
had. It was all contrary anyway. What I considered a good time, were the
times that would come around every now and again, where I'd get enough
booze in me to say, "Fuck the world, I don't need it. I'm happy being
myself. Happy doing things my way."
It
was a lie. A lie I told myself over and over again. Hoping that
eventually I'd either really believe it, balls to bones, or that it'd be
true. The only flaw in lying to yourself is that you already know the
truth. You already know you're full of shit, and you can't believe it.
You wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and tell yourself today
is gonna be a good day. You know you're full of shit, but you figure,
what the hell. Guess what? That day was shittier than the day before,
and quite possibly the day before that. So you let yourself fall into
monotony, get a routine, and grind hard on the press of life. The
escapist in you wants to take control, you can feel him fingering the
wheel, so you sate his primal need of getting the fuck away from this
shit hole you try to convince yourself is home, and push other stories
into his mouth. Movie after movie you pile in front of him. Lucky the
bastard is as curious as he is. Otherwise, this notion of materialism
you've set up for yourself would be overtaken by the great wanderlust
that's constantly sitting on your shoulder, like a songbird with an
endless song.
It
was almost an escape, wasn't it? No time for thought, you almost jumped
in, heeded no warnings, went where you heard the hush on the wind. You
knew the voice, it was a sweet voice with convincing words. Now that god
damn escapist is awake again, and so determined. A movie wouldn't
satisfy the grand urge that's gotten into his groin this time. What the
hell? I thought. Why not just give him what he wants? He'll never let me
go on with a regular life, unless I actually indulge him. We'll call it
a vacation, he'll think he's escaped, and after he's had his fill and
fallen asleep fat and swollen. We'll sneak ourselves back to the real
world of responsibility, taxes, and certain death.
I
still sat there though, with a blank expression stretched across my
face. I was still waiting on something, what exactly, I couldn't put my
finger on, but it was there. Close enough for me to breathe it deep. The
taste was sweet, the smell was intoxicating. My eyes watered, and my
eyes rolled back in ecstasy. But I still didn't know what I was waiting
for.
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