So what the fuck. Do I relate my story, explain my unraveled heart, list the things I've done? Or do I just tell of those things I didn't do, equally no one's goddamn business but likewise no more than lies wasted on falling stars.
The truth stands, and has broken me. I tried to write a letter, got as far as a first name and just the word "Shitty". That page will serve as the first page of this notebook, now brand new but soon to be wilted with my miserable sweat. I woke with the sheets stuck to me, stinking like an ape, bleeding a week of pills.
My back feels make from straw.
Forcing myself to write seems useless. I have nothing to say to myself, and plenty to say to those who won't hear it. I'm a fool, at a loss, speechless and brainless, giving myself up to the whims of ritualistic intoxication, allowing myself to be rake over soft coals and delighting in the illusion that they're just your fingernails in my back.
I was thinking of leaving the letter folded somewhere, and had it been that perfect letter, or any letter at all, I probably would have done so. Folded neatly, tenderly written, a smooth little papercut to my cowardly tendons.I would march a thousand miles in my dreams, I would trail blood from my ankles across snow and sand, and I would find a home. In my dreams, always in my dreams. But that solace evades me, and as I stood or am standing on the edge of the front porch, looking out into the silent wasteland, I realized no matter how far I walked, and to what hearth, I would find no greater comfort for my sad little backbone, no greater analogue for the warmth of an honest and long-awaited homecoming, no place more deserving to truly be called a home at that fucking moment, right there, perched and ready to fucking leave for anywhere, to walk away from who I'd been found out to be, defeated and bespectacled with chapped lips and cracked knuckles, sobs and sighs caught in tarpit lungs and coughed out as silent laugher...
That stubborn and confident man, who found he was suddenly a lost boy, who found he had no home, and found that he was occasionally the loneliest boy in the world, made a bittersweet choice that night, another wish lied to the falling stars, to awake somewhere anywhere with anything that felt real or right. And he lay awake for years wondering.
And I woke up with the sheets stuck to me, stinking like an ape. Nightmares had plagued my sleep, and I don't think I've had a dream since.