It’s therapeutic, isn’t it, putting pen to paper and fingers to plastic. It’s supposed to be something that fixes me, opens up my insides and helps me to breathe. But it’s suffocating, knowing that the words should be better, that with 26 letters I should be able to change lives. I get a little confused, sometimes, that my perplexities and talents are mistaken for mental illness. That a need to just go, is confused with the lack of synapses and chemicals that makes me sleep. I am always asleep. I should write about it because that will help, won’t it? But it won’t. An admission of laziness and of tiredness and of black eyes and a starving stomach will never make it easier or more honourable, because it’s pathetic. It is. It’s a fog and an animal, it’s a cloud and a glass half empty. The rest of the world can breathe, I see their glasses half full. But that’s selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, to think that the rest of the world never has a half empty glass; that they never just sleep and throw punches and miss all their classes.
I use words to cover up a need for real therapy, I use them so you look past me and maybe see something else. I am pathetic and I sleep more than I breathe, these days.