I don’t feel like writing. Here, or anywhere, sometimes. Who’s reading? Somehow, it matters to me that people are. Not who, just that people are.
I don’t feel like playing games. Not much.
I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Second-half Sunday anxiety around work is…real. It’s real. Maybe something needs to change. Something more.
I don’t want to meet people. New people. I am tired. Aren’t they?
But I do want to live. I want to breathe the summer air. Taste the cuisine that’s not of my people. Look into the sun from a closed fist for a second. Lose myself a little bit to alcohol. Hug someone. Kiss someone. Lie next to someone.
February, another risk you took
February, there was nothing near me
I couldn’t see, I was watching drunkly
0