For the Life of Me, I Cannot Remember

A year gone to the past. A year of ups and downs and now I am sitting here exactly where I was. I feel as if I have time traveled, as if sitting on a couch a year ago I flashed forward, moving my body faster than light to end up here. But I haven't. Things happened. Things I can't deny. Friends fell, family fell, lovers fell. It seems the whole damn world fell. And I am once again trying to pick up the pieces of someone else's life. Once again I am quoting myself, thinking how it is all rather ironic. Funny, if you will. Funny I once thought myself cured. Funny I once thought myself diagnosed properly. Funny I once thought myself sick. Funny how I said I wouldn't do it again. And at the end of it all, I am still sitting here, writing to a person who doesn't exist, in a format no one will ever see. I am remembering the tree with the trapped woman, the double sided arrow, the butterflies, the fear, the songs of my past. But I can't remember the most important things. The things that matter. I can't remember how I got out of bed that one day. I can't remember how I resisted that one time. I can't remember how I once composed poetry as easily as breathing. I can't remember why I fell for her, or how I picked myself up afterwards. I can't remember every lie I told to cover it up, or how I walked through those halls without anyone caring. I can't remember how to disappear, or how to sleep for eighteen hours straight. I can't remember how to talk to people about my problems, or how to seek help, or how to know when I need it. I can't remember what it was about talking that was so great anyways. I can't remember why it all matters.

Cause I Need Freedom Now

Ever feel like you're talking to a wall, a nice solid brick one, like the side of the school from when you were a kid? I realize now that this entire compilation is pointless. Almost as pointless as talking to you about anything with weight is. You will never read these words, and they are all written for you.
It's 2 am and I am writing again, like back in the day when those brick walls were crumbling down atop me and you were the only thing keeping me alive. This time though, four years later, five moves, two dogs, three couches and one TV later, the walls seem solid enough. No more crumbling. Instead they are boxing me in, brick by brick, building higher and thicker by the minute. And I am standing in the middle of it all, screaming til my throat burns and my ears ring from the effort, yelling at the bricks to stop. Yelling at the damn bricks. Obviously they don't hear me. They're fucking bricks. But I can't bring myself to stop yelling, nor can I bring myself to move my feet, to maybe add some physical force to this fight. The yelling, pleading, screaming, is all I have left to put into it. All I have left to put into my freedom from the ever darkening, burnt red prison I so carefully constructed for myself. All I have left to give to you. After all, I'm still pretty damn tired from having a brick wall fall on me for 6 years.

I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear

With my headphones on I almost feel alone here. Funny how when you were gone all I wanted was to have you sitting with me doing anything, as long as you were here with me, and now that I have you back again I can't seem to get away from you. The constant reminder of where we are and the state that we are in is killing me inside. The reminder of other girls and other men, the reminder of nights I cried myself to sleep, the reminder of how you feel. It's suffocating me. Part of my mind keeps telling me that it's the weather, the lack of sun, the cold and gray all around me that's making me feel this way. I know better. I know the truth of things and the only thing the gray sky does is make everything more transparent, make it all solid and concrete so that I can no longer deny it like I do when the sun casts shadows all around me. And with the truth and the undeniable facts all I want to do is run. Far and fast until the sun shines again and puts everything back into its state of allusion. But I have no where to run to. So I sit here, writing this thing that no one will read like it means something, like it will somehow fix this broken mind and set everything right. I know better, but it's the same allusion that I cling to, only this part of it I have control over. This part of it I can mold and shape to my liking, control it's coming and going so that when I fuck it up again I can at least lie to myself, cast my own shadows to cover blood and shards of broken glass.

Just Gonna Stand There And Watch Me Burn, Well That's Alright Because I Like The Way The it Hurts

I’m sitting here, on a red, green, and blue plaid couch that I got a slip cover for. The thing is a piece of shit, so much so I can barely consider it a couch, but the cover disguises it pretty well. I did my hair, showered, shaved, washed my face, and now I’m sitting here with a ten week old puppy and a year old dog who are just starting to get along, trying not to let my mind wonder too far. Bad things happen when it wanders too far. I’m trying not to think about how much I’m gonna have to pay to get this carpet cleaned. Trying not to think about the mounds of laundry, homework, puppy training, cleaning, and errands I have to do. Trying not to think about how hard the next few months are going to be. Trying not to think about how much I hate this apartment right now. But these thoughts come flooding past my once mile high wall. You see I used to be able to function, to walk though these flames without flinching. But now? Now I’m getting burned more with each step I take. Sounds awful doesn’t it? There is a solution, a fix to this problem. Those flames I speak of only exist because my mind is broken. So broken that only medication can give me some semblance of normalcy. I used to be able to function with the brokenness. Live my life with the flames of my disease and ignore their existence to the point that their heat couldn’t touch me. But I lost that, whatever it was. I lost the ability to ignore. And no I’m stuck with a decision. Just let you stand there and watch me burn, or admit to being so far broken that even you can’t fix it. The scariest part is, I think I might like the pain.

We'd Set The Fire To The Third Bar

I had a doctor’s appointment today. On the way home I came to a dead end with one of those yellow signs with a big black arrow pointing in both directions, as if people couldn’t tell that the road did in fact end right there. Left was home, right was not. I went right and drove, unable to speed due to the abundance of police patrolling. I felt trapped by the cops around and the giant fence encompassing my whole life. I had no where to go, no place that would offer more comfort than right there, in the car, driving aimlessly through the cluster-fuck of streets. My mind was wondering, like it had been for the past three days, and I knew right then why I had no place to go; In my hands was a torch, burning hot and strong, and I was carrying it to each bridge that led away from here.

As if that wasn’t enough, as if the realization that I had brought upon my own capture wasn’t sufficient to knock me down and spit on me, what really got to me, the kick in the gut if you will, was the fact that I was trapped right where I wanted to be. So why the panic? Why the constant searching? Why am I still looking for something I can’t quite see, can’t quite touch, can’t quite name?

Through The Storms That Lead Me Astray

Last night I began to write a letter to someone I love. I sat in my room, boxes from the move everywhere, my bed unmade and my laptop on my knees. The keyboard felt so familiar, so comforting underneath my finger tips, yet that small normalcy did little to ease my racing heart. I began to type, the words coming out forced and ridged. It wasn’t until about halfway through the letter that I broke, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the tears flowing freely. It was at that moment, the very instant I felt myself losing control, that I realized a few things. First there was the realization of how dependant I am on the one who put the ring on my finger. Second there was the realization of just how much I loved the one I was to send this letter to. Third was the realization of how badly I wanted, no, ached, for a summer storm. I still feel it on me now, no matter how much I try to deny it. I feel it all over, like some thick abrasive slime I can’t rid myself of. I need something clean, something pure, to cleanse with. But it’s not raining, and it wont rain for a good long while. And until it does, I’m afraid the filth will spread.

We Looked Like Giants

I sit on my impossibly squishy couch, back poised and hands nearly soaked with moisture. The feeling is one I am intimate with by now, I only wish it wouldn’t come from someone other than the one who put the ring on my finger. What I tell him is cool and evasive, but inside I’m practically screaming.

It hit me, the moment I realized what he was doing. A weight heavy enough it makes me ache. It’s a strange feeling, looking back. Sitting there, my body fighting the urge to sleep, my muscles tensed, phone in my hand, that thought occurred to me again. Strange describes it perfectly. Strange to think I once had myself figured out. Strange how easily that illusion was shattered, falling down like a stack of glass books, crumbling into a million different pieces too far gone to even offer the slightest bit of comfort. Strange to picture this time just a year ago. Just strange.