whatiwas

one-twenty in the morning, pacific time, a sunday being born as other days always come, months even, time passing and renewing and giving birth with only dream sentries to acknowledge the miracle, and i'm sitting in a darkened room with horrid posture, listening to gloomy music and writing here at this computer.

without a voice, the only thing i can do is sit and wait, forever putting off the things i need to do and burying myself deeper and deeper in my own skull. i should be at the bar tonight, singing something and drinking water and ginger ale and wishing i were singing something of my own, but instead i'm here, not understanding why i feel lonely even now.

sick of the world slowing down, allowing me to feel the inexplicable/inexcusable, i cap my ears with headphones and press play, and the slide along notes others will write better than i ever will hits smoother than normal, threatening to put me to sleep, and i tap the keys even harder, wishing i believed in things like drugs to put the nothingness aside or to at least make it poetic.

and, yet, sadness evokes so many more questions when there is no obvious reason.

i want you, and you are not here, and i won't be coy, when i say you, i mean everyone, because anyone who is you knows that it's such a waste to be alone when no one can see how fucking artistic and tragic it makes me.