disassociating
I let myself write endlessly
You know where the sand meets the depths filled with coral and unknown species? That is where my head floats. The only thing I feel is the soft wind of the fan rotating in my room. Although it doesn’t feel cold. It almost just feels like he’s touching me. I bit my fingernails right before the blood, and I claim to be as alive as they come, but something tells me I’m not far from the Crab Pulsar. You can witness my light, but it’s truly dead when you look through the scope. I wonder how long this will last.
My toes are very warm and the air is thick from the rain. I sit opposite the head of the bed, and I stare out the window, well, the blinds. I am staring at the blinds. White, fake wood attached to strings to protect the privacy I will never grant myself. I should open them, I should go outside. Lie in the moist grass. Stick my toes in the mud in hopes of bothering a worm. How silly would that be? You know, I often ponder what it would be like to have such a meaningless routine. Wake up at five, brush my teeth, and grind. Grind until I die early and enjoy only the materialistic things. Work for the five-thousand-dollar dinners and bottle service. A yacht and maybe a plane. Die wondering why no one actually loved me aside from the pain.
The pain of wanting more and being greedy until I fall into a ditch. Get in trouble with God, beg for forgiveness, only to be given a lesson I will never learn in trades for redemption. To hell I would go, twelve feet underground with no one to attend my funeral, but only the hearing of my will. I don’t wish to be that rich. I don’t wish to be poor, either. At least if I am poor, I will value my family more and maybe lead a life of humble Wednesday grocery ads and library cards. Enjoying birthdays without life getting in the way and making dinner with love, not gold flakes and caviar. But what about the middle?
A calm, comfortable life with people I love, but it still requires some late nights and hard circumstances. Food for thought, perhaps. Yeah, I think that’s what I would like. A calm, comfortable life where the Wednesday grocery ads are still useful, but a birthday dinner may still consist of caviar. First class flights with a side of a 2006 Honda. Something to wish for, something to hand me hope. I don’t have to let it all go to chase the sanity I crave. Respect the grind, I will, for others, not me. I will grind and still get my sleep. Take a day off to shop and maybe paint the toes on my feet. Pink or white? I’ll ask myself.
I may know what I want, but I don’t have the means to get there. I could, maybe, some discipline will suit me here. I should be honest with myself and let go of the fear of missing out because maybe the partying is fun, but I think a roof on the seaside would be more enjoyable. The life of the party can always live within me, even at the dinner table on a Sunday, after a prayer before a board game. A glass of wine, a good time, and bed by 11. It doesn’t hurt anyone, shit, it might even get me into heaven.
Idk why , but this made me tear up
I love your mind