Something to write about.
Here I am, haven’t slept a wink in two and a half days, smoking clove cigs like a fiend with a bottle of wine I’ve been working on since 4m (it’s about 8:30am now). I was hoping something brilliant would come out of this, since I never post here and erisgregory is the only one I’m here for. BTW. erisface. I totally lurked/stalked your tumblr for the last hour or so. I hate that I can’t see when posts are made by other people, so I never know if I am up to date or not.
The sun is right in my face. Hello giant ball of fire in the sky that I don’t see often. Hellooooo there. Mourning doves are calling. Ashes and matches are falling. Into a glass that’s now unbearable to look at without cringing. Matching glass, to matching life. Cringe. Then pour more wine. Light another match, enjoy the flare, puff the cigaratte, bad for bronchitis, don’t care that much, feel bad when that orange glow on the match dies down. Realize you’ve burnt your thumb, don’t really feel it. Numb, inside out, I’ve put my life on inside out. I live it that way too. It makes me vulnerable, visceral, and afraid to touch. Far away, so far away, too many miles, not enough money. courage, but enough love exists. Always will, deep in that pit of mine. Bury myself in that pit, fill the void inside my belly, my head, with rainbow capsules. So many, gone so fast, like the flare on the match. Marooned by my own mind. Another glass of wine. Goes down smoother than last time. I will swallow, drown myself in it if I could. 3 minutes and then oblivion.
Do I fully believe in oblivion? I don’t know, but I sure as hell know the mourning dove flew away and these new birds are noisy and annoying as fuck.
