Muddled Musings

We haven't had a real conversation in days and you don't seem to mind but it's fucking tearing me apart. You're the only one who knows. You're like cool ice on a fresh burn, the only thing to ease the pain even a little bit. But when the ice melts against the heat of my scalded skin, the pulsing ache still remains and you don't even bother taking the time to listen lately. Too much time has passed since I've been back to my house, even longer since I've been home; so I spend my nights roaming these empty Burlington streets late at night and wandering down the lonely roads inside my brain, a sick parallel. I'm just searching for purpose, some ounce of inspiration in this place that has sucked me dry. I'm only a shell of the person I once was, no motivation and no peace and no smile. I'm looking for comfort in all the wrong places, craving his attention late at night because you're too busy to tell me everything's going to be all right. I've gone against my own word, all the times I said I never would and made myself a liar. I smoked green til I felt golden, my insides warmer than the equator, but it never fucking lasts. It fades much too quickly and suddenly I'm back in the present sitting in this same black hole of a room wallowing and wishing I was anywhere else, my insides rotting away. I thought this would go away when I left. I thought this wouldn't follow me here but it did, it fucking did. The darkness only held off for a day or two before coming back twice as strong and leaping back down my throat, working me like a puppet. It owns me. I don't know how to make this better. I don't know how to fix it or how stop feeling like this and I don't know how to ask for help if I can't even admit that I'm unhappy.

I'm hardly ever alone; so many people surrounding me so much of the time that I can barely breathe in peace yet somehow loneliness is the only emotion I can feel. The rest is just pure emptiness. But I know that home isn't the answer; there's nothing there for me either. I miss everything about that stupid city I swore I'd still hate now, but people there don't care much more than the ghosts around me here do. This intensifying need to pick up and get the fuck out of here is overwhelming. I want to wind up on a mountain ledge somewhere and look over the edge and feel that conflicting and beautiful rush of fear and freedom. Feel that urge to fly again. Feel the wind on my face and the dirt on my bare hands and feet and fit myself into some landscape that doesn't feel as confining as these buildings do. I know this isn't going to just go away and I can't sit back and wait and hope that things will change because even if they do I'm still going to feel this way. Like I'm just wandering aimlessly and feeling unfulfilled in every possible way. Trapped.

You know, phobias are believed to be linked to the cause of death in previous lives. No wonder the fear of being forgotten or ignored keeps me up long hours into the night, keeps my sleep restless, keeps me from trusting him, keeps me clinging to you, and makes me fucking question everything. No wonder the thought of dying alone grips me by the throat and makes me gasp for air like a fish out of water.