weeker

I feel like the girl that los campesinos sing about, the one without focus, a messy blur, trying to finish the chapter, trying to finish the song, writing lyrics down on my knees like I belong. and even, those are just lyrics. and it has been a while, and I can acknowledge that much. but then I have to wrangle all this madness, and try to divine a point, a purpose, an anchoring stone, an angry spark. but, I am lost in the mess, headphones biting into my ears.

I guess it would be safe to say, I am always procrastinating, forgiving myself for these blurs. but how long do you get? but, see, it goes sidewards: I've been busy at work, but I've lost the hunger. I hope for a renewed contract, when I need the broken nose, the door, the four winds.

(my brain dislodged here——wandering.)

I am trying to record a week, and not stumble. but where did clarity go? i'm feeling like a mess, chels, fuck. i know, it's ridiculous once more. so i'm not going to fall down here, i just need to write something coherent, and i can only do that here, it seems. i try to write, but i'm hitting a wall. i want it to move the fucking world, not just house my broken voices.

again, i said from the start, you were my motivation. these letters to you. and my brain would obey me! and remember that! then it would all be easy. i would be anchored, eternal. but it blurs and bends. try to focus. get upset.

feeling lonely again. i never get to say that out loud any more. not to anyone. everyone just laughs at you, for wanting to not be alone. or, you know, keep on waiting. and i can wait. but i want to say...i am lonely. so fucking lonely. and the only people i ever encounter, regard me as this alien. over and over. i know it's old news, so it's stupid to mention. and maybe i can't even say this, if i transfer this over to my archives - hungered eyes, you see. and i hope that never offends you, that the things i write to you: they find my head, and i have to use that... to try to bridge myself to the world. i feel bad for that. but it's not my intention, ever. you are more than a translator. you know that. you are the only colour that keeps me.

but i am feeling lonely, and lost. hospital broke my gym pattern, and now i struggle again to reign my aliens in. get back to gym. wait for my contract at work to expire... two more weeks? either get renewed as full-time, or get a new job... i just need constants. so i don't have to worry that my existence is meaningless.

i am writing this to you. i really fucking am. i swear to sparks of that...

i am lonely because i don't mesh. and i really do try. and i really do not try. because you have to be both these things, don't you? i want to be myself, but i want to try to not be so...

it's so lonely...ugh. why can't i shake that? fuck. why do i ask out loud... sorry. sorry. sorry.

and again, you save me, chelsea.

i was in the hospital. this is not related to an excuse; it just is. food poisoning, and it reminded me. when i was little, all i ever wanted to be was in hospital (or be a turtle.) i should have known the warning signs, way back. you know? walking behind trees, talking to myself, hoping for hospitals.