The sun is out today and the dawn did come, but it isn’t my dawn. I’m still distraught, wrecked and lonely. The gas fireplace is warm, and I may go so far as to call it a hearth. I’ve been watching the flames all morning. They dance and shake as if in celebration. The weather says flurries today and I can already smell the snow. I’m tired of it already. Tired of all this, and if the predictive text on my phone keyboard holds any value, I’m tired of living too. Is that true?
The cats only want to play. Mintkey goes so far as to beg. I can only play for a short while before I want to sit down and resume peering into the flames. I must be a major buzzkill for them recently. Surely my demeanor has been that of a silently murderous psycho.
So many old tendencies are rising to the surface. I want to get laid. I want to get high. I want to lock myself in the closet. What would happen if I went through with these things? I’d rather not think about the afterwards, only the during; the during where some of the pain is put aside and I can feel alive, if only for a short while. I’m there on the edge. Every night the urge returns stronger than before. How long can I hold out? How long can I stay up and keep watch over myself? Fatigue is setting in. I’m just tired. How do you retain self control for days on end? I am almost too weak to fight it. It won’t be long now.
Am I alright? I’m not going to blow my brains out or anything . . . not to that point yet. But I’m not alright. I won’t be for a long while, I suspect. I should be used to this feeling. I’m not.