The buoyancy of my heart is suicide and I’m just sinking. Sinking, with neither ability nor interest to come up for air. Perhaps some ability, but lacking necessary will.
And this has nothing to do with anyone, outside myself. At least not this morning.
I leave the pages blank for so long because once they start filling up with words I’m always disappointed… or conflicted.
A woman walked into the hotel's lobby with a peeled orange, a third of it messily bitten off, its torn wet dark flesh shining in the florescent lights and I so desperately wanted a bite. When she left I could smell the spray of juice that must have misted in with the air around and I breathed it in, inhaling the loose particles of orange.
Partially in a state of a real thick awareness of my current surroundings and a state of feared nostalgia; this shift was hard to run through. Coffee. Licorice. Trying to avoid certain conversations (though I found myself constantly pondering how these conversations would flow out). Ghosts scare me just as much as they fascinate me. But they stop me dead in my tracks when they attack my sleeping state.
Sometimes, I just want to sleep.
Sometimes, I don't want to wake up at all.