the blood flowing through my fingers

I just felt like writing something.  Nothing swimming in my head except the music coming through the ear bud in my left ear.  Cleaned my apartment from top to bottom.  Brushed my teeth like I was trying to scrape off years of shit.  I got nothing.

I’m getting better.  Still walking the razors edge, one slip and I’m gone.  The music isn’t really doing it for me.  Distracted me for a bit while I avoid hitting the sack too early. The idea of getting up at 6:00 am just doesn’t jive with me.  But I am tired.  And I do have a long day ahead of me.

I’m also leaking money.  It’s scary.

I just need something, anything to grab onto right now.  Work is helping.  So is the infinite abyss of the internet.  When I need to get lost, I hop on here and just float from page to page…link to link…until my eyes start hanging and my chest starts aching.  I’m trying to keep it really simple right now as I try and rebuild.  The horrible thing about it all is that I can’t even talk to my own family about it.  I went over there the other day…about a week ago now…and literally stormed out of the house after 10 minutes.  Blew off dinner with the parents because I couldn’t face the talk.  I’ve been living in this shit for what seems like months now…and as much as I want to talk about it, get it out in the open and off my chest…for whatever reason, I end up running away and crawling back into my hole.  The one I dug out myself.  I’m fragile right now and everyone knows it.  I haven’t been myself, but this stretch feels different…like I can’t go back anymore.  I’ve always been a hyper-sensitive kid.  Tough…but under the layers and bone, I’m all soft tissue and tears.  But it came and went…felt like I at least had some control over where and when.  Now, I’m at its mercy.  I’ve lost virtually all control of my life, and am just floating wherever the current chooses. I’m doing what I can to steer…but my heart really isn’t in it.  The effort just isn’t there.

Work has been a blessing, keeping me busy with tasks and idle chit-chat.  I almost laughed once.  I’m a little lighter on my feet when I’m busy, the crisp whip of responsibility keeping me pointed ahead.  But its so faded.  I’m not sure I really care.  I try.  There are flashes.  But I’m so toxic I inevitably find a way to poison whatever good tidings I stash away for later.  Like pulling an old love letter out of your pocket, only to have it disintegrate in your hands before you can read it again.

Dust to dust.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing this on purpose.  This recipe for despair I keep coming back to, like somehow I’ll find whatever it is I’m looking for in this shadowy pool I keep diving into.  There’s something down here…but after all this time, you’d think I’d have found it by now.  Brought it to the surface to see what it looks like in the light of day.  This thing.  Instead I’m just wet with oil slick, my lungs lined and burning with regret.  I’ve got so far to go still.  And now I’m starting with an even heavier chain around my neck.

I can still smile though.