Drink too much coffee, navigate the tangled memory jungle of your bedroom every fifteen minutes for another piss break. Stare unsteadily at your frowning reflection in the mirror, pick absent-minded at the puckered acne sore just to the left of the soul patch beneath your lower lip thrust forward in an embarrassingly perpetual pout. Think about abstractions of the heart, stretched nearly to its bursting point, at how good it'd feel to pick at the scabs forming in the creases and stretch marks, and then let up on the navel-gazing and reflect on the fact that my heart is no more or less strained than anyone's, and that I should expect no one or nothin' to even give a moment's pause to my singularly strained condition.
I'm not long for this chair, for this room, for this weird green 11 am sunlight displayed before my tired eyes, the white noise of the traffic beyond our magnolia trees. I'm not long for these magnolia trees. I'll be back.
Ah, christ. I could be doing anything but nailbiting and taptaptyping, I could be sleeping or continuing to organize/pack, or I could just sit in the corner and think about all of the upsetting things that caused me to pace away my lazy day, to murmur away my bitter night with eyes shaded by broken spectacles and spooky treetops, eyes underscored by darkening circles and a curious apprehension in regards to my stuttering heart, trembling with cups and cups of black coffee and not a single moment in weeks where I've felt my back relax its manic tension that causes me to trip through each day like a puppet with its strings tangled.
I'll be in the woods soon, and on the water and on the limestone, and under the water and under the Midwestern summer sun, and I will remember that I shan't, for one fucking second, be forced to consider anything I don't feel merits considering.
I haven't the slightest idea what I'm doing.