I stopped writing when I realized it didn’t seem to amount to much. When I realized you, of all people, were no longer reading. No longer eager for what I had to say. No longer shared in this unique perspective.
I started up again when I was able to convince myself I didn’t care.
I stopped again, when I was stuck facing the fucked up fact that I still do.
Always is a funny word, but I use it a lot. Maybe it’s a sign of the damage that was done. Sometimes, I wake up screaming in the middle of the night for no reason at all, and part of me wonders —
Am I more herb than human now? Am I more broken than okay? Is success just going to be something always just out of my reach. Was I not built right for this life?
The answers are all no. Always no.
Regardless of how you feel.
And yet, I don’t feel as bad as I used to. I don’t cry at scary movies. I don’t sob over baked bread. I still fall apart, occasionally, on my bike ride home. But I think I’m making serious progress.
Ha. Who am I kidding. I’m creating a fucking mess.
It’s later than it feels, than it seems, than it is in my head. The summer is already gone and I don’t know where it went, but I know I wish I had some scrap of it back.
I did the worst wrong when I thought to myself: I have a good plan. And I thought that meant I wouldn’t break.
What a fool.
Always, always, always have a back up plan.
And don’t lay your head on the tracks unless you’re willing to die.
That’s all the advice I can come up with, and at this stage — advice is all I can give.
The days are longer and I think I’m back.