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.


The Writing Process:

I calmed myself in time to notice him hook his thumbs into the straps of his bag and give a
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)
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)
Cumbersome(Why, dear God, why are you still thinking about this?)
Feigned(Because writing is a lost art)
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)
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.


All is light.

Everything has a fuzzy halo around it since a few hours ago, including the moon in the wake of last night’s rain. Fate and love and joy and money have all come together and fallen into my hands in the form of silver planes and magazines. Consumer masses, I never thought I would say this, but I LOVE YOU.
I drove home smoking and spitting monologues into a broken phone, because I could not wait the hour to tell. I may be able to go to Portugal, for free.
Oliver, I’m coming for you.
All was great tonight between dinner with chef and the conversations with Zach before and after. The first caught me in a rare absence of thought, and held a question that caused my stomache to burst with lust and flickering like I have not felt in years. The latter held a comment that could be my ticket, literally, out of here. Regardless of what happens after this my daydreams have been validated for a moment and that feeling is like no other.

In other news: I must see you.


Boy, you left me at the railway station
Penny in pocket, pen in hand
Thinking you were such a romantic
Such a Renaissance man

Monday morning I drank that last cigarette down slowly on the road by my house, knowing once it was gone I would start thinking again. All would be trouble. I cleaned last night out of necessity and tonight I will work for the same reason. Copying, scribbling, avoiding important decisions.


Maybe its just all this falling down but I’m kind of upset. Or frustrated. All I want to do is leave this country, I hate the how financially difficult that is to do, and how I just don’t have the time. I wanted to just buy a ticket to Paris for my birthday, I calculated it out and I’d have just enough to make it there and barely survive if I worked the same hours I’ve been working and saved $100 a week. But the issue is I don’t have the money NOW, so my dreams go up like a heaping pile of crisp bills and gasoline. Fuck.

This isn’t something new, this is a desire that is constantly in me, hurting me, this desire to hop on a plane and leave. For once I may be able to do it but my job now doesn’t offer truly enough hours and I don’t want to be working 7 days a week again, this is all trouble. And as much as I want to find myself in a strange country alone, I really want someone to follow me. Maybe I should go to Portugal and find Oliver. Why France? Because it’s like the natural fucking pilgrimage of pastry chefs, they should build a giant napoleon or something for us all to march around.

My room is a disaster, my writing is a disaster. It’s been invaded by marine wildlife, it’s a fucking massacre of words. I’m feeling slightly manic and terribly restless. I need some coffee, rather, I need some not coffee. I need to stop thinking these distracting thoughts that send fantastic chills up my spine and make it difficult for me to think, to drive.

You, you did this to me, and I hate you for it. Hate in the sense that I want you around me all the time. Hate in the sense that I refuse to trust you as much as my mind is willing me to. Hate in the sense that all my creative inhibitions dropped and I can’t control what my hands are doing anymore.