I miss my family sometimes late at night, when things slow down enough for me to look around. During the day, I don't breathe. I don't look around, and I don't think. Little quips pass through my head, things I always mean to write down but never do. Thank you letters, titles for things I've written...they all build up in my mind and make my brain explode. Not even sleep takes this away. I want someone to pull my hair, press on my temples, dig their fingers into my shoulders. Distract me, something something.
The human condition leaves us all wanting to be the only ones who ever hurt, even though we claim to be averse to pain. If there's nothing wrong, then there's nothing to paint...nothing to write about, nothing to create. Nobody wants to see portraits of happy families painted on biodegradable canvas. We want the plastic and the cancer and the death and the guernica because it's easier to accept that we're going to die soon than it is to live life like we're too lazy and too scared to make anything out of this trainwreck. If I don't have motivation to be the best, then I sure as hell want to be the last one standing with the biggest number of open, seeping wounds.
Labels: casual writing, pain
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