I have spent the majority of my day terribly irritated with anything, everything and everyone. I don't want to be but I can't help it. It's just how I've been today.

I think I need to give Tyler Durden a call and see if he wants to bring Fight Club back.

...speaking of Chuck Palahniuk, I was reminded of one of my favourite quotes of his today.

"The idea that I can't share my problems with other people

makes me not give a shit about their problems."

It's totally true too. I've never really minded listening to people talk or complain or over-share but I'm finding it increasingly harder everyday to give a fuck about other people's problems. Why can't everyone just do what I do and carry a journal around? Writing instead of speaking has done me some good and I really think it could help a lot of other people. I can hear them now though, "Writing doesn't work for me" or "I can't write like you Stephanie".

WELL FUCK. I'm not saying write a novel! Just fucking put a pen to paper and get your shit out that way instead of putting me in a position that I don't fit into well right now.

...

I know I sound like a bitch right now but that's only because I'm being a bitch right now. I'm sure in a few days (or maybe even hours) I won't mind listening to people again but right now I really just don't want to hear it.

Get a fucking journal.

Get a fucking pen.

Write.

/rant.

MY MIND IS EVERYWHERE RIGHT NOW. I was thinking about hair and then I was thinking about something else but then I realized I'm thinking WAY TOO FAST. Wayyyy too fucking fast.

Like, shit.
FUCK someone brought up Batman and now I can't help but think about Batman and teeth and Alfred and cars SIMULTANEOUSLY. My fingers are seriously struggling to get this all out. My brain is just on light speed right now.


This shit is intense! I need to go run or something!

This is a big fuck you to Non-Fiction.

fuck you, Non-Fiction.

And now I will explain:

I am a socialized humanoid. I exist because social constructs allow me to; they tell me how to act, how to think, how to be, and (most importantly) what to expect. I can make friends by adhering to social norms like shaking hands and answering the question "how are you?" with "okay". I can date a boy and know that, at some point, he's probably going to expect something more physical from me because my physical attributes and how I use them are way more important to our relationship than my personality, despite what he says. I can change my clothes according to where I'm going, whether it be work or class or a party.

What I can't do though is give Non-Fiction what it wants and that is because it is willing to take so much that I have nothing to give it. What if I disappoint it? What if I don't do it justice? What if my non-fiction- my reality- is completely uninteresting and unimportant to Non-Fiction? This is not my problem though. This is Non-Fiction's problem.

Non-Fiction is synonymous with the word "whatever".

Waiting passively, as though it is willing to accept whatever I have to offer, Non-Fiction waits for me to fail. It leaves so many options open for me, not because it wants to hear everything, but because it doesn't really care. Like the half-assed ear of an acquaintance, Non-Fiction is only pretending to listen to everything I have to say, nodding and laughing at seemingly appropriate times. But when I ask for it's opinion, Non-Fiction will simply shrug it's shoulders and tell me to ask someone else. Non-Fiction and I will never be best friends at this rate.

Like a dog chasing its tail though, I am not yet ready to give up on Non-Fiction. Instead, I have a proposal to make. Here I am, bending on one of my literary knees and holding Pandora's Box in my hand, waiting to open it. All I need is an answer to the one question everyone has been scared to ask: What do you want from me, Non-Fiction? When I get the answer, I will be ready and willing to give Non-Fiction what it wants and expects from me. Until that day though, I will continue to pine over Non-Fiction, vacillating between love and hate all while trying incessantly to please the insatiable nature it has adopted.

i was going to explain...but nvm.

A Hypomanic Stream of Thought

My pen can't keep up

with the words racing

and racing and racing

in my mind and out

of my ears, clouding

my vision like gnargles

getting stuck in a cloud

of electrons while the

chemistry snaps and sparks

but my cigarette won't light

so I grind my teeth and

drink some blood I found

in the back of the

refrigerator where I left

the giraffe after I took

out the elephant and

put it in the middle

of a room where I hid

in the shadow but a

fleeting feeling says

I can't keep them here-

it's inhumane- like the

dolphins who work

their nine to fives

sticking their bottled noses

into underwater minefields

to feed the information

to a man standing on a boat

unable to walk on water

because he probably stopped

going to church like I

stopped going to church when

the Elektra complex wore off

and I realized daddy

wasn't coming home and

it was just me and mommy

with the louse in my hair

and the worms under my skin

covered with the red bumps

that daddy's mommy gave me

before the cancer took her

and left me crying in the

bathroom with my favourite

cousin who is no longer

my best friend because things

get complicated and friends

get drunk so they can share

the feelings they really

don't have so you push them

out of the picture and press

a button too fast so you're

stuck looking at the blur

of your friends right

elbow where they walked

out of your life where

they no longer exist because

object permanence has suspended

itself for the time being-

however long that is because

i swear it's noon

and it has been for

about two weeks now

with the occasional

after lunch nap where

I wake up and realize

I'm late for French so

I drive to class where

it's all about j'etais

et j'atais et j'etais

but seriously-

qu'est-ce que j'etais?

je ne sais pas mais

je ne veux pas suivre.

because what i am now

works and works and

works everyday for thirteen

days of eternity brought

on by copious amounts

of espresso (america's cocaine)

that's never pure enough

because I don't have change

for a fake one-hundred dollar

bill so I give them a drink

but my oasis doesn't have

enough shade and they've

been driving all day

through the deserts of

Southern California whre

Mickey Mouse and Mexicans

alike provide whatever is missing

for the people who don't

know what they have

but I don't think we have

anything but they tell me

what I think is wrong so they

pump my blood full

of drugs that only work

if I don't take them and self-medicate

with a bottle, a bowl, and

a little blue pill- all

swimming inside my veins

putting my mind at ease by

duct taping synapses and

dendrites over the mouth

and around the wrists

so I can finally close

my eyes and sleep for

two hours before the

entire thing starts

all

over

again.

This may or may not be the anti-depressants and alcohol talking, but I have a confession to make:

I can't feel anything.

I don't mean that in the "I'm so drunk you can slap my face and I won't feel it way". I mean it in the emotionally void and absent way.

I don't feel anything.

I am so envious of people who can suffer for longer than half an hour. Of people who are heart broken...or happy...or sad...or angry...or any of that because all I feel is complete indifference. I'm sure that's not even a feeling- indifference that is. It's not something people feel on a regular basis. In fact, some people never feel it at all. Most people know how they feel about any given situation at any given time, even if it's "only a feeling".

I yearn for "only a feeling".

I long for something that's "only a phase".

Instead, I'm left with indifference and polarization. I know how to send feelings and people and things flying into north and south; east and west. I don't know how to find some middle ground...or Earth, rather...where I can genuinely feel.

It's terrible here. I am a black hole of anti-emotion.

Someone help?

27 February 2010

Waves of blue rush to cleanse
the stains of white washed
terrains, once a lush green and
natural brown.

Flowers crane their necks
mauka, straining to sing
a song of warning while birds
of paradise head for higher ground.

In another world, Mother Earth
has already made her mark.
Her ocean of tears polluted with the dead
trees and flesh of a shaken land.

Anticipation reverberates in the ocean
leaving the air stale and ghost like
in the middle of a family vacation.

When Alanis Morisette's "Mary Jane" and "Perfect" dominate the internal soundtrack to your day, something might be up.

When going through the motions of everyday tasks leave you lethargic and completely unfulfilled, something might be up.

When you haven't had a restful night of sleep in two weeks because you can't shut your eyes without nightmares dominating the black of your eyelids, something might be up.

I guess what I'm saying is something might be up.

I try to keep this shit to myself...I really do...but sometimes, shit happens and it gets a little overwhelming. The worst part is I'm not sure what is overwhelming me. I've been having mini-panic attacks every two hours or so, but I'm so used to them no one notices. I can pass it off as a heart palpitation or a weird feeling just like that. But the fact of the matter is, I'm terrified. I'm not sure exactly what I'm terrified of but I know it's there and it scares the living shit not only of my conscious mind, but of my subconscious too. I really don't care to know what it is that's bothering me. I just want it to stop. Last night I had a really terrible nightmare and I left a little girl in the nightmare to survive on her own.

It hurt to wake up. She was clinging to me...begging me to see the end of the nightmare through with her. But I couldn't. I had to wake up. It wasn't restful sleep and my body- as well as my mind- was terrified beyond belief. I don't know who this little girl was, but her face will stay with me forever as she clings tightly around my waist, pleading I don't leave her.

I still can't believe I left her to deal with that nightmare. She's probably trapped in my dream somewhere, suffering at the expense of my selfish nature.

I smoke a cigarette while she probably cried in terror.

How dare I.

I can't make sense of anything right now. I just need a few good hugs, a day off, and a night of good sleep.

Apparently that's too much to ask for.
Oh well.
I suppose I'll deal, as always.

Whispering behind people's backs is never an effective way to communicate.

Don't you get that?

The only effective way to communicate is to let the fear of disaster go and say what you need to say. Even if things can go completely wrong and end up in a chaotic, confusing mess it is better to be honest and upfront than it is to hope someone will ask the right questions or say the right words.

People aren't dependable creatures; we're all plagued with the same insecurities.

The same worries.

The same biological functions that make abandoning what's inside our heads and hearts absolutely terrifying.

I am so fed up with the lack of communication that I witness between people everyday. And I'm saddened by the round about ways we've come up with in order to make honesty a group effort as opposed to an individual one.

I'm sure this is making no sense, but it makes sense to me (in my head, of course) and that's why I'm writing it down.

Don't hold me responsible for whatever you take from reading this.

Empty Nest.

Two doors down
a child screams
searching
for the lactating nipple
of a worn and tired breast.

Tears and milk
dripping
from across a room
where an attachment is not being forged.

Silence is a luxury
lasting thirty seconds at a time
while the infant-
wandering mouth and all-
finds comfort in it's dry fingertips.

tequila swimmin' in your veins say yeahhh and write and some shit.

i've got words. i promise.

today is valentine's day, isn't it? my dad (as per usual) told me his ideas for what he wanted to do for my mom. my parents disgust me with how fucking cute they are sometimes. i mean, really. my mother's face just glowed when she showed me the flowers i had already seen. sometimes i think they're fifteen and hormonal.

anyway!

this heart thing i've got going on right now is getting a little ridiculous (and by a little i really mean a lot). i've got a handful of doctors all telling me a handful of conflicting things and not one of them is a cardiologist. i went to get a referral to a cardiologist but just getting the referral to get my heart monitor took two months.

i'm telling you, at the rate everything is going my heart is going to stop before anyone knows what the hell is going on.

which leads me to my next point...

wait.

no. nevermind. i won't go there just yet.

blegh. i was going to write and bitch about the usual business but i'm not really feeling up to it. in all honesty, my heart is hurting really bad and i've been sexiled without shoes so i'm pretty much just sitting and drinking and wasting time before i have to go to work in the morning. perhaps i'll go kill some zombies. i've found video games to be very...helpful...lately.

don't ask cos i don't want to tell.

yeah, so i give up on this writing thing. maybe i'll go work on my poem that's due in two days.

maybe i'll post it if i like it.

oh, decisions...

Fade to Black

The water downed brown of coffee
stains the torn pages of
a diary lying open— exposed
to the polluted air of a tainted
room and its secrets,
hidden quietly on the walls…
the bed…
the floor…
the window.

Not a tear dares to fall from these
tired eyes, though the thoughts
I can’t ignore are more than enough.
Overwhelming and loud, thoughts of what was—
what never will be—
plague every inch of my body…
my mind…
my soul…
all of me.

Turning the lights off— lying down
on my worn and tired
bed— slamming the diary shut— all
that was my self disappears with the room.
Exhaling— the room—
my exhausted mind— all goes black…
goes black…
goes black…
oh so black.

WHY WHY WHY must I get like this?

I don't even feel like explaining what I mean by "this". It's tiring and if people haven't picked up on it by now then they can all go service themselves in a disease ridden restroom.

I'm not a happy person right now. I wish I could lie and say I was but I am not.

I have been awake since four in the morning, save forty minutes where I had a nightmare in the middle of the day. I worked at Starbucks. I did homework. I worked at Mustard Seed. Came back, did homework and you would THINK I would be asleep right now.

I am not.

I can't even fall asleep.

I have one xanax left which means this panic attack I can feel coming on is not going to be foiled.

I have taken nine Kava Kava pills and I don't feel better.

I have been off my meds for exactly a week now and that weird body-shock-feeling that happens has returned. I'm grinding my teeth. Lashing out. All that jazz.

At least I'm not threatening to kill myself though...that means it's not the depression thats out of control.

UGH. FUCK. ME.

I'm over this. Writing isn't any fun right now...I don't even give a rat's ass about what I just wrote or what it sounds like. It's scattered. I'm complaining. I know all this.

Fuck it. I don't fucking care.

I'm so tempted to get in my car and take off...there's nowhere to go though. Nowhere I could get, at least.

I'll go lay in the dark now I guess. I don't know. I just want a hug.

Oh, the monotony of resuming school is already driving me insane.

I talked to this man at work today who told me it was his first day going back to work in a few months. Naturally I told him I was jealous because the only time I've been out of work for an extended period of time was because of my knee surgery and you know what he told me?

"Sometimes you just have to get away...theres nothing wrong with it, in fact it's healthy. People don't seem to understand that."

That being said, it should be known that I am currently forcing myself to write this because I don't have the option of just running away right now.

IN SHORT, today was not a very good day for me. Okay, no. That's a lie. Today started out really well for me but I've been feeling very...off lately and I guess I've been long overdue one of these days. I haven't felt as terrible as I did today in a about a month and, in all honesty, that's a really long time for me. Anyway, back to my story.

Last semester I was utterly fucked in the head. I laid in bed all day, watching The Wall over and over and over, only to get up at night and drink until I was drunk enough to feel numb. I was going through xanax withdraws, doing even stupider things that I really don't want to admit here and really just trying to fuck things up as much as possible without disrupting the entire order of the world. I gave in to the self-destructive side of me as much as I could and in all honesty it made me feel like...me. If that makes any sense.

So one night, I decided I wanted to be absolutely belligerent- almost to the point of blacking out. Instead, I ended up having a really good night and was some semblance of happy. Unfortunately, "happy" has a way of being extremely short lived with me so (of course) something went wrong and my CA ended up reporting me to some woman who I had to talk to today.

Without getting in to any real detail about the situation, the woman I had to talk to decided that I need to see yet another therapist and be psychologically assessed yet again because I am apparently incapable of coping on my own. The entire thing really pushed me down that rabbit hole I've evaded for so long and I was (and still kind of am) utterly miserable and angry, only not at the woman who decided this or any of that.

Who am I angry at?

ME.

I am SO sick of this crazy thing. In all honesty, it's getting overwhelming again so maybe therapy is a good idea, but I am not in a good mood so I am not going to admit to admitting that. Instead, I am going to say that I have once again reached a point where I can't stand myself. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me. I hate me and I know no one wants to read that or hear it but fuck it. That's how I work. I don't know how long it will last this time, but I know that I cannot ignore the feeling anymore. It's been creeping up on me- despite whatever is going on in my life that I actually do enjoy- and it's finally gotten to me.

UGH. I haven't mentally purged like this in a while but it's not feeling like enough right now. So fuck this. I'm going to go smoke a cigarette and pretend I feel better than I do.

That's all. Fuck this game. I'm angry again. Lovely.

Things I Want to Do Before I Go Back to School:

...make a list of things I want to do before I go back to school.

The only thing I can think of putting on that list right now is "go to the beach". I really, really, really need some ocean in my life. The ocean is my only source of pure aloha now that I've got that mainland fever.

I feel so landlocked.

I just want to feel sand under my feet and taste salt in the air.

The details of what landed me in the emergency room are still quite a mystery to me. Sometime between my friends going out for a cigarette and coming back in, I passed out. I guess I was taken outside for fresh air because I was really warm and, naturally, Public Safety found me and called an ambulance. Even now, I can still only remember being pulled out of an ambulance and wheeled into the all too familiar Redlands Community Hospital Emergency Room. Lying on my stretcher, not even bothering to shiver every time someone opened the door and the cold air swept over my body, I listened to nurses and doctors rush around me. Though I was hardly conscious, I knew something a little out of the ordinary was going on. With nothing else to do, I listened to their conversations. After about three minutes I had heard “nineteen”, “male”, and “full arrest”. It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together. Moments later, the doors opened all the way and the boy the nurses had been talking about was brought in.

From where I was laying, I could see everything. One EMT pumped violently on the boy’s chest, but there was no response. Something in my gut told me there wasn’t going to be one either. Still, they tried for a few seconds more, and the boy’s body moved as though it were made out of some sort of jelly as the EMT continued pumping his chest, trying to get his heart to start. As they wheeled him into a room nearby, my gut-feeling was confirmed. A doctor walked out of the room, toward the only two people in the Emergency Room on edge— the boy’s parents. I listened as he explained to them that when the EMT’s arrived at his house, his pupils were already fully dilated; he was brain dead by the time they got to him. On top of that, he wasn’t responding to any sort of resuscitation.

“He’s not going to make it?” His father’s voice shook as he asked the words his wife was unable to. The entire staff in the Emergency Room hall looked toward the floor as if it were an easier way to say “I’m sorry, but no.” Naturally, the boy’s parents lost what little composure they had left. His father threw his arms in the air and burst into tears at the same time as his wife. As he took out his phone to break the news to the boy’s family and friends, the mother simply asked if she could go in the room and kiss her son.

Still lying on my stretcher, I felt wrong and ashamed for witnessing what I had just seen, but for all the wrong reasons. I wasn’t ashamed because I had watched everything that happened; after all there wasn’t really any other option since I was lying in the hall anyway. I was ashamed and felt wrong because I didn’t completely understand the boy’s reactions. Not only that, but I felt nothing. I had just watched someone die. Shouldn’t that have evoked some sort of emotion? But regardless of what should’ve happened from what I had just seen, I couldn’t deny the fact that I hadn’t felt anything. I simply laid on my stretcher quietly, knowing it would be a while until a nurse got around to seeing me.

I watched as the boy’s family and friends came in and out of the hospital, some crying and others looking very angry. I waited to sympathize with at least one of them, but I was completely unable to. It bothered me; I couldn’t possibly be that detached from everything…could I? I continued wondering this until I saw my own mother walking toward me.

“Hey mama,” I said, my voice hardly audible. I could see tears in my mother’s eyes and as she attempted to ask me if I were okay, I cut her off. “I’ll be fine. There are bigger things going on right now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. Just then a nurse came up to my stretcher and injected morphine into my IV. Since I hadn’t eaten in three days, it hit me fast and I lay looking up at my mother as the warm, fuzzy feeling from the morphine took over my body. I could feel myself smiling as my body relaxed.

“I just watched a boy die,” I finally explained to her. She didn’t say anything so I continued to speak, “I didn’t feel anything at all. Nothing.” And with that I rolled over on to my side and let the morphine take over.

When I woke up, I was by myself. I had no concept of time, nor was I sure of anything that was going on with me. What I couldn’t get out of my head though was the fact that I had watched that boy die and didn’t feel an ounce of anything about it. I let my mind wander to how I felt about death and realized that maybe this was just the way I had conditioned myself. Suddenly, I wanted to share this feeling with the rest of the world. It didn’t matter to me if I were to die, if someone else were to die, or we all were dying; it was bound to happen and I was at peace with that.

Since a very early age—eight to be exact— I have been completely at peace with the idea of death and dying. As I have gotten older though, I have come to find that most people are not like me. In my eyes, death is inevitable and anything that is inevitable is not worth worrying over or being afraid of. Not only that, but I find the idea of death comforting: knowing my life has a beginning, a middle, and (eventually) an end means that one day, my life story will be complete. Still, I can’t seem to get anyone else to understand this. Most of the time people tell me that when I’m on my death bed or actually facing death I will change my mind. I do my best not to disagree, but after watching that boy die I can say almost certainly that death does not scare me or bother me in the least.

I'm in a Non-Fiction Workshop this semester, and though I've only written one paper for it I've already gone through the whole "you're a natural" and "you have a grasp on this writing thing" torture.

Yes, torture.

Since the day I decided to let someone read a very childish poem of mine, I have always been told I write well. I never get the feedback I want. I mean, it sounds ridiculous, but for once I wouldn't mind someone reading what I write and saying "Honestly, Stephanie, you wrote this in an hour. It's complete shit." Or something of the sort.

But no! Instead it's always about how good of a writer I am or how they don't think I should change much because I knew what I was doing. It gets old, but I'm not necessarily saying I don't enjoy a compliment here and there. I just want more feedback.

So, I've decided to challenge myself because it is November. I don't intend on writing a novel though; I've got something else I've been working on and I want it to be some semblence of "finished" by the end of this month.

I'm not going to talk about it just yet though because I don't want to jinx myself.
:D

Anyway, that's all.
Not much.

Can we please take a second to pause this tedious story to talk about something that no one wants to talk about?

Sadness, loneliness, depression, melancholy; whatever you want to call it, we all feel it. It's there, and it sucks, and we hate it and we like to forget about it when it's not there but the fact of the matter is that it's inevitable.

There is always so much opportunity to be let down.

There is always so much opportunity for our own indulgences to hurt us.

It is impossible to go unscathed by the claws of the lowest emotion we know how to feel.

...that last sentence didn't come out right, so let me start somewhere else.

You see, once you're sad or depressed or whatever the only thing that makes sense is waiting to hit rock bottom. Naturally, you're first instinct is to fight it and then the next best idea is to figure out what's causing it and get rid of it. Unfortunately, none of that matters or works or proves to be any kind of useful in the long run.

Sometimes the best thing to do is to take a deep breath, look someone in the eye and show them the scars or cuts or tear tracks staining your cheeks. Sometimes it's best to just sit with someone and tell them you're writing about how much your life really fucking sucks at the moment without letting them read any of the details.

And you know what the shittiest part is? Sometimes even those efforts are just as futile as any of the others.

I suppose I'm too inebriated to even get where I'm trying to go without being direct about a lot of things. I realize I could just suck it up and pour my heart into this thing, but that's not what I want.

What I want is to know that other people are just as human- if not more- than I am.

What I need is to feel like I'm not alone in this never ending war against the ruthless workings of the nature I am a victim to.

I need another human. I need someone- anyone- to tell me "hey, guess why my life sucks..." and then make me see that this suffering I feel I'm always going to be going through isn't as abnormal as therapists and doctors tell me it is.

It's not always about one's disorders; sometimes it's simply about one's willingness to accept that they can not be a consistent human being, and neither can anyone else.

Consistency is for robots.

And sobriety is for people who are afraid of the truth.

I'm shutting up now because clearly I am talking about things that I can't even follow right now.

Goodnight. I hope I wake up in the morning....kind of.

I went outside for some fresh air; for some quiet.

When I go outside for this purpose, I like to imagine everything inside my head, both the physical and metaphorical, floating out of my ears and drifting away with the wind. I very literally clear my head. Only this time, I was unable to do so.

A girl wearing only spandex and a sports bra (both too tight for her figure) was loudly arguing with her mother on the telephone. I am not one to judge such arguments because I’ve had my own fair share of them, but I couldn’t help but laugh to myself when I realized what it was they were screaming at each other about.

“I’m not a child, and it’s mine!” The girl was shamelessly raising her voice, clearly unbothered by my presence. And then she said the funniest thing ever in the whiniest voice ever:

“IT’S MY FACEBOOK MOM.”

And that’s where I started laughing. To make the entire situation even more entertaining, the girl started crying. She then proceeded to hang up on her mother and throw her phone at a nearby tree. I was absolutely torn by this moment. I found the entire situation hilarious, but at the same time I really just wanted some quiet.

So I sat there giggling to myself, watching the smoke from my cigarette dance into the sky as the girl put her phone back together and walked away embarrassed.

It's like waking up without an alarm clock.

There is something innocent, something natural, and something amazing about reacting to the morning in a different way. That's what this feeling is.

I suppose it could be considered a lack of feeling, but internally that's not what it is. It's an absolute tranquility with the way things work. It's a peace of mind I have struggled to find for the past year. It's a beauty that I can't put to words.

It's wonderful.

I don't need the inconsistency, nor do I want it.

I have done so well without it.

I am doing so well without it.

This is my release. This is me, Stephanie Kate, letting it go and not doing it because I feel helpless. I'm letting go because it's what I want. I don't want the burden of walking on my own eggshells.

I don't want the burden of poisoning those around me.

So I'm letting go. I have realized who I want around and who I'm better off without. I will not make an effort. I will continue to be unfazed by petty attempts to bring me down. But most of all , I will continue to enjoy things. I will continue to make the people around me happy because I know that it's actually possible to make these people happy.

The impossible and frustrating people have been released. The ones who aren't afraid to reciprocate feelings and thoughts and raw, honest, human emotion are the ones who are staying.

So, to those I no longer wish to make an effort with, goodbye.

Goodbye and good night and I wish you the best of luck in figuring out how to make yourself happy because it is no longer something I want to do.

i need a song.

a picture isn't ever enough. painting is never enough. writing can only do so much.

i need a song.

one that i can lay in the dark and listen to on repeat and never get sick of hearing.

one that is okay following me down the rabbit hole.

one that doesn't mind only being played when i'm not in a good place.

i need a song.

a song that can not only reminds me that it's going to be okay, but one that reminds me it's okay to not be okay for a moment.

i need a song.

if you find this song, please, let me listen.