I’m about to implode.
I’m dying to write something. I’m itching to write. Something sad, yes, something sad and lonely and bitter. But for the life of me, I can’t do it. I’m trying. I want to say things, but I don’t know what to say. I want to feel things, but I don’t know what to feel. I want to be things, but I don’t know what to be.
I want to create
replicate
fascinate
…masturbate. (I kid, I kid.)
You see, I’m so tired right now. I’ve had a good few days, and its been lovely, but there’s still something here, left over. Like when the cracks are filled in, and the excess paste is wiped away, I’m the filled-in crack. Temporarily easy, momentarily erased, hidden, comfortable.
It will all blow up. And maybe I’m waiting for that to happen.
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