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Published : 2 months, 3 weeks ago (Tue, 27 May 2008 16:33:36 PDT)
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Some days I'm glad that I don't talk to you as much anymore, because I've come to realize that we're both so different than who we used to be.
I could sit here for hours wringing my hands and letting thoughts race through my head as I dig through my brain to find something decent to put down. I could sit here for a solid hour staring at the blinking cursor thinking, "What on Earth do I begin with?" I'll begin with this: today was a day just like any other. Every other day has been the same for the past year of my life. I'm where I was a year ago, but a little deeper in the groove. A little bit deeper in the rut I'm stuck in. I'm exhausted but I can't sleep. It's still early, but my eyes are so heavy in this dimly lit room. A few minutes will pass and I'll completely throw myself off topic and search another page, look at another picture and listen to another song before I find my way back to the words I'm searching for. My legs are sleeping and my feet are cold, but sleep hasn't come yet.
I've spent the past two hours sitting here in the same spot, not moving a bit, thinking about people and events and places and the future. Retracing steps I've taken and replaying conversations I've had. Memories like old films without sound, the beat of the reel rolling on the track as it projects on the screen. Inside my head I'm pacing around thoughts and feelings, outside I scratch my brow and smooth my hair as I inhale and think of what to put next. The filler to fill the spaces of what is supposed to come next but won't come out.
Eventually the weight of my eye lids with take it's toll on me and I'll retire to bed that is no longer comfortable, in a room that's too cold because I've left the window open longer than necessary. Change the song, it's not right for this moment. Copeland plays. I'll embrace the melancholy of the song, because it's a feeling known all too well. Inside my head I say, "No one will read this. But it's good to get it out." Seven minutes pass and I'm still not sure if this is all that I exactly want to say. But my fingers have minds of their own. There's a fruit fly on the computer screen, it sneaks in and out of my keys, escaping my fingers next move. The girl screams in the old 60s movie I'm watching and again my attention has been redirected, my words lost because I couldn't hold onto them well enough.
I'm tired. Emotionally and physically. Ever get that feeling that even when you're sitting up completely straight, you feel like your weight has all shifted to one side and you need to shake yourself from thought to realize that it's only your imagination? Ever feel like you're moving faster than the thoughts in your head are coming out? Like your mind has been slowed down and the rest of you keeps moving? It's like waking up from a bad dream covered and sweat and heavy breathing. You don't understand, but you make it mean something. This means I'm tired, and forming words with my fingers is getting harder and harder.
I feel my knuckles gaining weight and my elastic band is pinching me. My eyes dart towards the clock, 7:12 AM. Will I ever get to sleep tonight? Will the dream I had last night continue on and freak me out some more? I hate questions, but I find myself asking them more and more everyday. I find myself questioning my past and my future, and my present. My mental state and my physical self. Why did I blab the ending to that movie the other day? I should've just kept my mouth shut. Why does the word should've come up highlighted as an incorrectly spelled word? Crack my knuckles and readjust my legs. This song is terrible, so I change it. The Spill Canvas plays, and I think of you.
These songs, they remind me of you. They remind me of how you made me feel, and how much I miss you, and how long I've been missing you. That makes me sad. The formatting of this paragraph wasn't right. I look up to the lyrics of this song, it's so pretty and delicate. I feel like I can relate. I know that you're weak, so let me sing you to sleep. I wiggle my toes, but I can barely feel it. I dread standing up. I shift to ease the pressure and let the blood flow. I'm so tired.
I write something and then erase it. I can feel the pins and needles begin to tickle my left foot. The Honorary Title is playing, and the music is straight out of a '50s sock hop, a slow dance for lovers. I was born in the wrong era. I belong back then, when life was care free and everyone had love in their lives. When everyone loved their lives. My hair tickles my arm. I wonder if maybe when you died, instead of heaven you go back to a different time period and live history all over again. I can't wrap my head around that. I don't believe in heaven, but I know that somewhere there is a place that you go when you die. My eyes are so heavy now, and it's hard to breathe through my nose. The pins and needles faded fast. I'm running out of things to say.
I think this is the night I get some sleep.
and I hesitate to find the right words to cure my lingering soul. |
hongbby
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