I feel like I'm living the same day over and over again. Not in some Groundhog Day-esque fashion, where I come to expect each event down to its most minute detail. If only my life were so merciful as to give me even a speck of predictability in the midst of everything. Well, I suppose it has. My life is monotonous and yet I find myself endlessly unprepared for what I know to expect. Perhaps it is like Groundhog Day. I wouldn't know.
Every morning starts the same, and though the sequence of events changes, they only change insofar as the order of them does. I stare at the wall as if I'll find anything better for me in the obnoxious, suffocating blue. I wallow in my own self-loathing for hours, lying around doing nothing but sating my animal desire for touch. But it's my own wretched hands left cold against my body that leaves me emptier than when I started. I eat nothing. That's not to say I don't eat. I devour things that do such little for me save for make me tired, although these days that seems more like a blessing than a curse.
Sometimes I go to work. The same monotonous task for barely enough money to do anything with. Not as though I go anywhere worth spending it on anyway. I have no friends, not a single soul on Earth willing to come by, because there is nothing here worth seeing. Shall I show you the baseball field that no one has used in a decade? Do I show you Main Street, where no one is ever seen, making this whole town as ghastly as you might think it to be? Or I could take you out of town, where I never go and know nothing about. I have lived stationary in my own head for coming on two decades and there is nothing to show for it. I have been nowhere and I know nothing. A life wasted before it truly began, drooling on myself at the one party a year I'll ever be invited to. A socially inept dog kept locked in the closet. I only want to socialize and yet no one speaks my language. When you bare your teeth, is that meant as a kindness?
I wish I did any more than just knowing. I know everything, and it's killing me. I know why people don't like me, and I know why I feel so down all the time. I know why there's an empty hole where the inside of my body should be and I know why it feels like someone's drilled through my head and poured all my good sense down a gutter. I know all of these things and yet the one thing I don't know is how to give myself the will to make any of it different. I can scream to the high heavens that I wish to get out of bed, but of course, my legs obey a different master. Who might that be, tell me and we'll both know.
I wish that I could will things to be. I want dedication and strength, I want personal convictions. As it stands, I hold no thought that is my own, I create no art that doesn't exist merely as a poor imitation of the kind of person I want to be. I spread myself to slivers all over the world wide web in hopes that maybe one of my sickly tendrils will take hold of someone and they'll be forced to look at me. I wish you would look at me.
I wish that I had a lust for life. But it seems that life has developed a lust for me instead, and it's given me a relentless pounding. I want to rest. Please, let me sleep for even one more moment, let me lie in a field without power cables to obscure my view of an endless sky, let me be a small and fragile thing. I am nothing and it pains me to know that. I want to go outside, but there is no outside left. And even that exists merely as another excuse. I live in a little box above the ground. The window isn't covered anymore (it is) - and maybe I think that makes me a good person. I live in my box. Do not pick up my box.
Perhaps I'll always be alone. Maybe things are better that way. Maybe the me at 12 years old who said we'll never make it to 21 was right. I never planned on making it that far, and maybe I won't. Thin pink yarn, a closet. Buying a gun at Walmart. I'm growing up.
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