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Last night I wandered through the empty landscapes of the past eighteen years. I think it had to do with the vodka and vitamin water I swallowed over my dorm room desk in order to warm up my tired soul, hoping someone else would take the wheel and steer me in the right direction. I though about that desire, the insatiable thirst tearing my limbs apart in every which way; the aching in my bones as I fall out of bed in the morning; the cold winter air seeping in through flannel shirts and khaki pants. And we rationalize by saying we’re stuck in an endless routine or by passing from girl to girl over the course of the school year. It’s deeper than that, you know, sometimes we just need a little compassion.
Between the blurred alcohol-induced dreams I’ve found the only truths in my life; the emptiness that overrides everything else…. The emptiness I fill with the steady beat of my subs and smoky inhales. It’s no wonder I wake up feeling more sick than when I drifted to sleep. It’s no wonder everything seems out of reach when you stand a towering five foot five inches. It’s no wonder that my outstretched arms drop to my sides and leave a bitter taste on my tongue.
First period, I’m skipping Spanish to pump sound waves through my shivering frame. The practice can be mind numbing and mind awakening without even a simple conscious appeal. It’s better than the oxys I’m hung over from, it’s better than slow dancing with the girl of your dreams, but you know exactly what I’m wishing for; a punch to the face. A night under streetlights holding her hand and walking on the train tracks. If I walked far enough I’m convinced I’d find her waiting there for me five years ago. But for now I’ll just beat myself up. I love the taste of my own blood, and as you can guess I’m a little fucked up. As you can guess I’m a little mixed up between the images I create and the connections that I’ve tried to make. I’d rather sit alone and fade between nicotine coated air than sit in some study room and contemplate why I’m there. I’d rather be alone that have friends I can’t even count on anymore. I’d rather be fucked up than misled, I’d rather have someone to explain these thoughts in my head. And that’s where you come in. The anonymous audience is the best I can find, and I suspect that you’ll listen to me better than anyone I actually know. Now it’s your turn, so pick your words wisely.
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