I seem to enjoy existing outside of the space I have, the bed that is mine, the soothing space of colors and sights that I created for myself, and another night passes where I will find unsavory rest in a different bed, spend another day in yesterday's clothes, wonder what it is, why it is, that my bed is fine for naps, my apartment well enough for a shower and its closet, but that is all, that is all I can stand.
for sure, it is the loneliness.
once you get a taste of how it could be, it's very hard to return to that empty bed, that soft spot you've made for yourself, that hole in the wall that is solely yours; at least, I find it very hard.
but possibly it is something else, a something I haven't figured out yet that has crawled into my heart and died there,
[the scream-a-pillar is a good analogy for this.]
that sounds so melodramatic, but that is what it feels like, like there is something rotting inside me and it will be revealed eventually, and everything I thought I knew will turn out to be a lie.
and maybe, I am trying to hold on to anything tangible, anything outside myself that wants me, that desires me, that compells me, that wants to hold me back.
where have I left myself?
"...all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time..."
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