I still want to be me, even if no one wants to be with me, not even me.
I lay in bed, having given up on searching for sleep, I don’t know where he is, but not here. My stomach aches. It starts beneath my sternum and moves through my ribs. I hum on the outbreath to aid it, it kind of works. The mind follows the bodies callings, or visa versa, and I think that maybe I should kill myself. Of course I will not, but I did think it. Isn’t it funny how it creeps up on you. You pay the cost of that immortal man who fell prey to cheap desires. Oh well, it’s done now, at moments like this you can’t think your way out of it. It’s the colour of the haze. You can walk a few steps in the right direction but eventually it will blur all your vision again. So I type with one eye closed as I lay on that aching stomach, like Van Gogh doing one last painting after being shot.
Loneliness is a strange emotion. It’s as if it’s just lack of energy and therefore lack of optimism. Watching others having fun and feeling disgusted. This town is riddled with hippies. Hippies that look like they used to be junkies so threw themselves into all the bullshit that comes with being a hippy. The clothes, the energy, movements, the strong belief in knowing everything and of course twirling a burning stick around on a pathway that I'm trying to get past. I sit there dressed like no one else, another town with a new dress code that all the free thinkers follow. All the free thinkers doing the exactly the same shit. And I do judge them, and that judgment turns inwards and magnifies itself to keep me awake at 2 in the morning, but I don’t care. They make me despise happiness and a part of me hopes they cry themselves to sleep because they’ve sifted through the group psychosis that allows them all to be so free. Of course, who would you rather be, the skinny hippies dancing and all fucking each other or the loner with a beard and a sore tummy?
I still want to be me, even if no one wants to be with me, not even me.
My pain paints pictures to hurt me emotionally. Thinking of girls I love, a girl I love, almost ashamed to say it cause I feel I'm in a loop of my own fantasy. Trying to bring the real world into it. Do you love her or just the distraction from the demon that sits behind your eyes waiting to ask questions that has no answers.
It annoys me to even ask but what's insanity but your own isolated reality. Insecurities walk to the front of the line. There's no inspiration. All the cheap tricks are sold out. The beer doesn’t feel the same. The hash makes me restless. Sobriety is boring. Body too sore to walk. Books to plain to read. Words too repetitive to write. I think of her, falling in love again with someone else, the thirteenth Riley Dyson for the trip, whilst I read a book on how to read Spanish and listen to Argentinian songs. I wonder if there is a demon in me that rubs his hands together when I care about something and enjoys toying with it. A demon manifested through abandonment issues, suppressed memories of being molested, a god complex, a soul who takes holidays elsewhere. The worse thing is I judge myself for it and that makes it worse. Now I don’t know who I am at all. Am I the one who is being too sentimental and betraying the philosophies of no attachment, of not leading with the ego, of not letting go, of not thinking how I am meant to think, or am I the one watching all of that and knowing I am wrong. It does not feel nice to be naturally wrong. And like I said, its creating a story to make sense of the pain. The pain that will dissipate. Yet how do I stop my mind from creating stories I don’t like, of her meeting two Spanish speaking men and having a threesome with them. How can I even be upset; I have no right. I have no right to be upset about stories I make up in my head but could possibly be true; but hopefully when the sore stomach goes and the sleep comes then the stories will leave. Who am I to judge?
Yet only my own hypocrisy. If the right girl came along id throw all my troubles at her instead. I would do the same, I would beg for a distraction. But maybe I wouldn’t., I tell myself what I tell my past and hope I have the wisdom to follow it through; worrying about it ending, will end it, if it’s going to end then enjoy what's here, give it all up and have faith. It’s all a bit dramatic I know. But I'm afraid I'm dying and a good thing too, maybe the body will survive, I know the soul will. I'm going to wait outside and hope sleep comes home soon. I just feel a bit stupid. Can I admit I am and then laugh at it?
Take me or leave me, at least you have the option.
