Twenty two years of lost time. That’s not a final number. I’m still counting more days where eating food is the most pleasure I get in a day, and where taking a shower is my only source of warmth. It’s unnecessary to write, but the idea of this being read someday by you is probably the only real reason behind my words, and where I subconsciously derive my sense of purpose from. Just like you kept your words hidden even though I found them, I hope that you get to read mine, and they find you. I know you weren’t speaking to me, but I found a place for myself between your words nonetheless. That’s what I do. I’m lifeless and obsessed. I miss you. And I should have listened to you. Your timing for our death was fucking impeccable, but I just had to prolong our life a little bit more until we outgrew our meaning.
I realized I can’t write if it isn’t somehow about someone. When I was more fragmented I could write a lot because I addressed different selves every time. I feel calmer now but not happier. I’m used to writing when I’m upset, but now that I’m more contained, it doesn’t seem to come to me so easily. I don’t miss being in pieces, but I miss feeling liberated whenever I wrote about it. It’s all balled up in my chest now, and I wanna poke it and let all the puss seep out. It’s a lie for me to be this contained. It’s a lie because the most pleasure I feel these days is through a good meal. Me seeking pleasure through food? I’m only honest to myself when I starve her or fill her stomach with smoke. Her default is also a sore throat, either because of all the smoking, the screaming, or being choked.
Twenty two and counting more lost time, but at least the last 4 years I abused my body and made it feel something. Now I’m just growing fucking old.
