I’m tired. Soul tired. Deeply exhausted. So stressed that I’ve gone beyond stressed and come out on the other side, and instead of worry, I feel nothing. I just chew my cheeks and crack my wrists and keep on moving, moving, moving.
I am overweight. My stomach pooches out. I hate it, keep thinking how to fix it, keep doing nothing. I don’t have the time to sleep, how do I find the time to exercise? My mind tick tocks off the edge just trying to figure it out.
Tomorrow is my last day at work. Monday is my first day at work. I also have my second job on Friday night and Sunday morning, and in between, I’ll attend a wedding on Saturday. I want to sleep through all of these things, but that’s not in the cards.
My house is filthy. It seems like there’s cat litter in everything, on everything. Nothing smells good. Everything’s gritty or dusty. Even the cleanest things are still covered in cat hair. Munky threw up on the rug. I have a huge pile of dirty clothes that I have to smuggle in to work tomorrow night, to wash overnight and smuggle back out in the morning somehow.
I’m living at the precipice. I see my life and it is not me. I am not me. I am not here anymore, but when I leave the house, I’m putting on a good enough show.
In truth, I am so lonely. The only friend I want to talk to is the one who doesn’t love me anymore. Every other conversation tiptoes around the edges, skips over the hidden like it’s invisible instead of just hard to find. Eclectic people find me square, and square people find me eclectic. It feels like my life has writer’s block. I need to shout at the stars, but silently, in code, and know that someone is listening, using his decoder ring, nodding along. Without that person on the other side, this is just implosion, madness. I can’t make myself understood anymore. I speak a dead tongue, and no one is left who cares to translate.