“Maybe Paris has a way of making people forget.”
“Paris? No, Not this city. It’s too real and too beautiful to ever let you forget anything”

Fuck this place I’m officially going to Paris. 

I’m hanging my head out the window, the roof lit with the orange end of a cig. Everything is coated with the saccharine scent of vanilla and the beginning of an episode. My head is throbbing, waiting for the meds to start working, this is torture.

I slept earlier today for an hour or so, only to fall into a nightmare that you died. I was sitting over your grave trying to play a song for you on guitar, and (as it goes with nightmares) I was unable. My fingers would not move, I just screamed and sobbed and lay on the dirt and pebbles in front of your headstone. My first instinct upon waking was to stop crying and call you, and we spoke in numbed voices for barely a minute,
“I’ll call you when I’m back home”
I knew you were lying.

It’s been so long since I’ve had time off that I can’t handle the transition in and out of working. Maybe thats what brought this on, maybe it’s all the important decisions I’ve let linger. Maybe it’s that I haven’t had a thing to eat today, but I’m not hungry. I can’t breathe. Let the descent into madness begin.

So maybe stopping my medication abruptly wasn’t the best plan.
So maybe I should have learned this from the last 8 billion times I’ve decided I didn’t “want my thought-process altered” and that my emotional stability was all a placebo effect. My insomnia has returned, arms swinging. I hope this is only a one-night thing. I was planning on walking to work tomorrow but chances of that happening are looking slim as I lay here frying in my irrational anxieties. My heart and my thoughts are tripping madly over cobblestones, my limbs are twitching. I turn over and back until I’m dizzy. I’ve been here before, and it’s no better or worse than ever. Just when I really thought I was normal. Fuck. I’m going to go smoke a cigarette and pop and unnecessary amount of pills.

Reading Snuff: The Important Moments

Pg. 32: References to toy train collectors that explain far too much about my father

Pg 57: The idea for my next piece walks out of the mist, still fuzzy, but growing clearer with each step.

Pg. 71: A paragraph of trivia from Singin’ in the Rain I already knew. Regardless, Chuck Palahniuk writing it means my life may be complete.

The Writing Process:

I calmed myself in time to notice him hook his thumbs into the straps of his bag and give a
______exhale.
Forced
Contrived
Sighing(too feminine)
Heavy(been done/only when he is sleeping)
Shivering(it was cold)
Flickering (works with the theme of light)
Twitching(only when drifting into sleep)
Affected(this is going nowhere)
Bitter(he was happy, or something like it)
Finishing(not even close)
Last(he’s is still quite alive)
Bored
Exasperated(He wasn’t running he was standing)
Moaned(Right word, wrong moment)
Mumbled(Of course this only happens when something incredibly important is being said)
Prolonged(SO done)
Off-putting(a complete lie)
Forlorn(Come on, you can do this)
Fading(I so cannot do this)
Dreamy(did I actually just put that down?)
Searching(I was searching, scanning, memorizing, I was trying to remember it all and watching the words fade as fast as i could form them…)
Beautiful(thats just the eyes and lips)
Ponderous(annoying)
Cumbersome(Why, dear God, why are you still thinking about this?)
Mannered
Feigned(Because writing is a lost art)
Involved(hmmm)
Labored(because no one reads anymore)
Strained(Fuck this)
Trembling(I repeat, too feminine!)
Jittery(As far as I remember he wasn’t cracked out)
Whispered
Murmured
Distinct(yeah that’s really fucking helpful)

(Fuck this. I’ll finish it later)
(No you won’t)
(You know what? Fuck him and his Fucking exhale, who needs it?)
(You do?)
(I do.)
(Fuck. Mergfuckfuckshitfuckihatethisfuckgoddamnitjesusfuckingfuckstupidblastedpen)

The pieces that were left made it here.

These days life has been a string of moments between these small deaths. Such is youth I guess. Writing next to you under the in and out light of streetlamps and our cigarettes as we drive away from something we once called love. We are both dangling our ghosts out the window between two fingers. You taste of spice but not of who I want you to be, all is trouble.

(Who knows what of this will be legible in natural lighting)

With remorse I return my head to the clouds to watch the fish swim, my eye caught by a species with a distinct movement.

I repeat myself:
I realized today that you are a lost cause, but that makes two of us.
So maybe this could work.

I am a rock.

My current life plan is to continuously bang blunt objects against the side of my head until there is enough damage to my hippocampus to destroy my short-term memory of the past few months and leave me unable to form clear emotions. My financial worries will be solved once I learn to play the spoons and become a street performer in some vast city outside of this country.

It’s been an interesting week. I spent most of it with my heart filled with helium as I struggled to bring my head down from the clouds. I’m back, and it’s cold here. But I will most likely be staying for a while. Flight comes with too high a price, so I am grounded to the wet pavement until my legs are ready to run again. I give them until Monday night.