My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, lately I’ve been astonishingly depressed, months really, and it all kind of hit me badly today. The problem is that everything hurts so badly I’m not good at talking about it. My friend is dead in the sense that Anakin Skywalker died. The person’s gone to me, and the loss is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. I don’t miss my voice as much as this person. I just shouldn’t have written about it the way I did, the euphemism was very wrong. The rest was entirely real.

Everything else is so easy to write about, save for this. I’m a fuck up.

My best friend died today, I feel like I died too. I should have, I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m broken and I can’t fix it.

Right now I feel like I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I’m doing. It’s a feeling that comes and goes, but lately it stays. I really don’t know what to do about it. Maybe there’s nothing, I don’t know.

Here’s a better picture of tattoo number ten. The green is much more visible now.

I’m a kind of addicted to a video of Nirvana playing Dive, I watch it a few times a day lately. It’s a little ridiculous, but for the 4 minutes and 19 seconds it’s on I’m genuinely happy. كيفية لعب بوكر I think it’s the way Kurt looks, he’s in a dress and a tiara, and he’s doing exactly what he wants to be doing. He tunes his guitar a little, takes a spectacular drag off his cigarette and that’s it, he’s on. It’s beautiful watching something like that, 4 minutes and 19 seconds of total contentment and freedom.

Whatever Kurt did on stage just looked so pure, exactly what he wanted to be doing. الكزينو He wasn’t putting on an “act.” He did whatever crazy fucked up idea he had in his head, not for the “show,” but because he liked it. طريقه لعب البوكر He wanted it. I aspire to that sort of freedom. I’ve had it before.

Lately I feel kind of lost, but when I watch Kurt wear a dress, or smash up an amp, it reminds me of that freedom and how it feels. It pushes me to have that feeling again, to chase that fix. It’s why I leave the house with a hose in my neck and IVs in me. It’s why I have ten tattoos. It’s why I flirt, why I kissed Sara one rainy night in that tiny room. I like that feeling, I need it. Seeing that freedom reminds me that it’s possible, even if everything I want seems so far away.

I’m so exhausted and fucked up right now. The ambulance just left because my trache went crazy and I couldn’t stop coughing, which, of course, got better after they arrived. Obviously, I’m glad I didn’t have to go, but I feel pretty Goddamn fucking stupid. My head hurts from coughing. I have things to do tomorrow, I’m nervous it’ll happen again. I feel like a ridiculous failure. I wish I could sleep for a thousand years.

So, I finally got my tenth tattoo. It’s actually an idea I got while I was in the hospital last week, not the idea I had before the hospital. While I was in, a friend drew me a little flower on a post-it note that said, “Get well now!” It cheered me up, and I liked the writing. I did feel better. I want to keep being better. I’m not always so great, and it might be a cheap gimmick, but the tattoos remind me of things I forget.

It’s a little bloody just now, I’ll post a fresher picture tomorrow.

I want to write something, many somethings, but I’m tired. Lots of ideas, no energy to write them.

I feel the Ativan grabbing me by the shoulders, holding me close, breathing softly in my ear. It’s not warm and nice like a lovers touch, it’s cold and lonely. It whispers empty nothings as it lulls me into unconsciousness. A lover’s whisper feels safe, promises something for tomorrow. Held by Ativan, I wake alone, but at least I sleep. My love was my Ativan, sleep warmer, waking brighter.

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes. Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose.

Well, after five sticks, four at home and one in the e.r., I have a new needle. Hopefully, the fucker’ll stay in my arm.