I wake up naked in my little bed and roll several feet onto the floor.
The ceiling is always entertaining to me.
Laying in silence, I contemplate whether I should shower and do my errands, or *******.
My cell phone buzzes to let me know that an echo of one of my longing cries for a sense of connection has responded from the void.
I'm ******* ******.
My train of thought was finally getting somewhere deeper. Somewhere deeper than the considered ****** gratification, prolonged for as long as I can distract myself from reality — which is pretty much until I decide to experience the tantalizing taste of what death might feel like; a doppler of pleasure similar to an airplane flying overhead followed by a weakening of consciousness, limp limbs and a brief moment of thoughtless bliss: surrender.
I push my sorry, soar neglected body into a somewhat upright position in order to reach my phone, for which some ******* reason, I think will let me know the reality of my worth.
I press the 'power' button to confirm that I will not find what I am seeking outside of my self. I set it back down and think that I am the only person who would know how to love myself best, but even I don't know how to do that.
Well, that killed the mood.
So I stumble out of my room to search for some food in the refrigerator, but it seems that I only ever want something that is magical and out of reach. Typical.
Most of the time I really hate wearing clothes. I'm pretty good at it, though, I suppose. I used to lurk on fashion forums when I was a closeted freshman in high school, thinking that maybe people would appreciate me more if I at least looked aesthetically pleasing. I was right to a degree, but not in the way that I wished to be.
I throw on some pajama pants and an old white v-neck with some holes in it.
In the corner of the living room, my green backpack sits slightly crooked with its grey straps lying lifeless on the floor. Someone I loved but will never love in the same way again gave me that bag. It's got a bladder I can fill with liquid and a hose with a ****** that I can **** to keep me alive. It's really nice to have when it's as hot as two ***** rats in a sock outside.
But it's brisk and the leaves are crispy and falling from the dried out grey-brown branches, so I reach inside past crushed pieces of dried sage and bits of tobacco to grab my leather-bound book and ****** a ball-point pen off the table because I like to feel the resistance against the page as I write and I just can't get that same feeling with those **** pens with the bleedy cartridges that I leave in my pockets when I do a load of laundry and it leaves ink stains on only my favorite shirts. I really love them too, though. For other things.
But today I want something that isn't that. Today I want something different. So I shuffle into my sandals, and tighten the velcro straps and run out the door. The air hits me like a brick wall of happy sky breath. I'm not wearing any underwear, so I feel somewhat liberated from oppressive societal paradigms as I skip to the street. Across the road is the tree line to a million acre pine reservation. Leaning against the telephone pole, I wait for a car to pass and then sprint out in front of one that's trying to turn onto the street. I feel absolutely giddy as I do so, and keep running until I'm half a mile down the trail, another half mile away from the lake, panting with glee.