Friday, March 11, 2011
I sit alone on my bed. The moonlight pushes through my window and washes over my body. I can practically feel the night surround Portsmouth, and I can hear the remnants of day sizzle away.
The pocketwatch is still ticking. It rests against my neck. I don’t know why I took it. I shouldn’t have. I think I may have stolen it from someone. I don’t care though.
My brothers are sleeping, for once in their lives. My sister is watching the Backyardigans downstairs. My mother is in the laundry room, smoking cigarettes and drinking.
I’m in here, as usual. I want to take a walk but my headphones are broken and I don’t think I can take the silence of the streets as they are now. It’s cold and lonely outside, just like inside, but without the comfort of a blanket and the entertainment of reading or writing.
I want to write, but I feel like I shouldn’t. I feel like I should somehow… take back all of it. Take all of the words back… to erase them from existence completely. But it’s too late now. The words have already escaped. But, even worse, the ideas fled along with the words.
What am I even complaining about, though. What am I even thinking. Why am I thinking. Why can’t I just shut the fuck up and stop. Just, stop. Stop everything, completely. I don’t want to go on any longer.
If I go to sleep now and let my dreams take me, will I wake up and escape from this nightmare?