Don’t remember me as the kid you grew to hate, the kid that grew up too late, always tripping over his words and getting pushed around by fate, I swear I never meant to make my world collapse but sometimes that’s just how things happen. I felt the rafters bend and snap under the weight of every shout, every word that followed every doubt and you held composure so beautifully, but I was trapped and all I seem to know is how to shift from place to place in a mental relapse. It’s always been so easy for me to confront any sort of worry that reared its ugly head my way, but lately all my nightmares found their place in my day, day to day routines are getting so much harder to maintain, simple little actions that used to keep me so distracted become monumental tasks I could never imagine to deal with.
You’ve filled my every thought with some form of conscious information, and I could never appreciate it enough because I just can’t see above myself. I’ve sat so deeply in a fog of all my confusion, writing novel after novel, hoping to just make some sense of everything or even anything, but the thing is that I haven’t. I haven’t found an answer, nor any clue to steer me towards an easier path, I just wish I could go back. But the story always goes on, or at least that’s what every one tells me, and I wish it was as easy to believe as it is for them to say.
Been cursing the days away, ain’t no comfort in my bed.
Found a few old words I’d scribbled to say how I used to find some comfort in my own head.
Or how I used to rest so hopeful, before all the pages that no one’s read.
Been cold at night, drunk and philosophical.
Kept my head up seemingly to others, failure should be impossible.
I’ve kept a home for you, even if I can never be that close to you, and yes the walls have fallen apart and the windows have lost their shine, the garden’s been over grown and the bricks hide under vines, but that doesn’t make it anything other than a home, and hopefully one day things can grow to be okay, maybe not the same, but quiet and okay again. But for now I’ll sit in this tiny little room that I’ve filled with all I’ve known, covered the walls in memories and pictures that I’d made to just escape. My fingers falling victim to my own demise, and while I’m vacant they’re all that’s alive, and sometimes when the rhythm hits and notes or words or images click I start to feel some warmth again, even if it’s only for the dream that I’m lost in, but it’s such a difficult fate when the comfort stops it’s drop ins. Such a difficult time trying to fit the reason to the rhyme, trying to heal how I broke my life, trying to see if there’s any other answer than these letters that I write, trying to get the fuck out of my own head and to stop these broken sleepless nights. I spent my winter on a road paved by my own mind and I spent it walking until I couldn’t find the will to keep on walking, I watched the whether change, the air grow cold, the skies grow grey, I watched my crutches crush and crumble back into their own lives when they’d found a love so humble, but I hadn’t lost my stumble, my constant pains or regretful mumbles, and as the ice thaws I had hoped to find anything buried deep below, maybe just a moment or even just a final throw but I didn’t. I never found a damn thing I had searched for, digging through these piles of clothes and picking at my sores, it seems my skin can’t even mend itself let alone the life I put up on the shelf, just to admit what it once was. Isn’t that what everyone does? Do we look up to a soldier and think of the man he killed or is it how he served his loved ones, how his braveness should be instilled? What of the man who kills a stranger while he’s driving drunk around? We always shame him as a human, never knowing the love he’d grounded, to the people on the streets we always look so far down upon when all that’s ever helped them was nothing, save maybe the sun at the crack of dawn.
Is there any way I can save myself? Any way to see the life I built, lived so happily, fell ill and buried with guilt? Is there anything out there to make me see life again, and not just people’s evil. Is there anything out there for me?
I never wished to close the book, the one that gave me so much hope that I could never look away, the one that kept my attention glued to every page, but I did and now I live this way.