It's late, that's how this always starts out. The digital dial confirms what the lack of sun and the feelings I have already believed had to say. Normal people that dare to function in the hours where the sun is cherished and the world moves onward don't tend to dwell at this time. This is my time, how wonderful, so positively wonderful. Except come tomorrow I will once again regret greeting the night time creatures, but I'll spin it out like this is okay, this is what I wanted.
The concept of tomorrow is a distant idea, it'll never really come around. Today is yesterday, tomorrow, the present. Tomorrow though, it'll all be different, I won't feel this awkward in my skin again. Soap will wash away the remnants of my haunted mind drawn out on pale skin. Eventually it will be a part of the past, of those things that aren't meant for pillow talk. That aren't meant to be shared with people in case they get you confused with being typical.
I am typical, I am reliable. I will always be late. I will always hate you from a distance. I will always feel as if I have something to prove, but I will never get around to trying to prove it. See, consistency. Simple, pure, constant. When three am rears its hideous head I will greet it with frustration, with the wish of something different. Maybe it's about time I coated my night with over the counter pills that whisper words of sleep, of dreams no longer harrowed by everything.
This is how I live on a regular basis, I just normally avoid typing out the angst. Unfortunately it is late and the canvas known as my legs looks like a war zone. Colours are everywhere, they've marked everything. The stench of well loved Sharpies are coating the air around me. Who doesn't love late nights like these. Alone, devastated, and coming to realize that your desire to converse with folks is mostly a bad lie. I don't really want your friendship, I just want to stare at you like maybe we could have been friends in a different life. All of the cool people do that, right?
Every now and again I have to double check myself on a word when in a state such as this. Is that how it is spelled? Is the definition the same one that I was thinking of? What a turbulent mind set of double guessing, triple guessing. All of these phrases and mixed up signals are meant to be stirred together. To mash up into something dramatic, something unrealistic, and something misunderstood. Easy words, tiresome words. Where is a definition and a thesaurus for easy reading? A click away, a dream away.
When the day resets and I awaken again this will all seem like an abomination created by someone else. I will keep it around though to devour again later, to dissect. At what point during this time did I think this made sense? Did it ever make sense? Probably not, but the chance that it did chills my bones in ways I would rather it didn't. Oh well, what is a manic girl to do?
Panic. Fret. Worry. Stress out. All of things for all of the hours. How many tiles will be on my ceiling tonight before I try to calm my nerves again? One. Two. Four. There's already too many and I have barely begun. I will not continue on like this... Even if you were the only thing that made sense. Oh those words. Wretched words. Abhorrent lyrics. They are my favorite, my chosen ones though. On everything, all over the place, scribbled into my fading memory.
I drink to forget these moments of sheer terror, sheer adrenaline... These moments where I know I am, for no particular reason, straining to keep my act together. Then collapsing into a heap of crumbled up paper. Of burnt edges and wanton memories. Don't ask, it's all wrong anyway.
