home | near silence | intruder | aftermath | rain | i'm fine you decideI headed to bed, but ended up sitting and talking. There were three of us. We were laughing. Or maybe I was alone, listening to the radio, reading, and looking at the clock. It doesn't matter, all that matters is I had an urge to live.I had trouble sleeping. I dreamed of several ways to kill her. Mostly for reaction. I always look to the reaction of two, three people. This is why I don't talk to her, because I kill her every time. I remember the time she killed me. It wasn't a dream, or maybe it was. I don't think it was. I killed her again after that. I could have sworn somebody was talking to me, keeping me company. I forget the name. I felt as if I was missing something. The light went out and I slept.
Sleeping hasn't been easier, but for other reasons. I don't kill her anymore. But everything crammed in my head, like it is, doesn't help. It's something like stress. Sometimes I sleep all day. Or maybe i just want to. When i think about it though, nothing else seems to be happening. I might as well be sleeping. My routine is entirely the same and exactly different. I spend time trying to figure this out, somewhere between the times that I eat. I'm not too sure when that is though. I do math at least once a day. I figure out how many hours of sleep i will get. Or should get. I don't often sleep the whole night. I can't calculate how much sleep i lose. I don't even realize when time passes. Or thoughts. Or actions.
His stories are always absolute bullshit. That's what I like about them. Once he told me how he cooked eggs when he was a caveman. He could only be described as the kind of guy that walks through IKEA backwards. The description never failed. They don't like his stories. They don't like him. Sometimes I feel that too. Dinner was good.
They were playing older songs on the radio. Songs from past summers. Each would remind of a certain time. The day was confusing. There was a storm. I enjoyed it. I was thinking about how different I can be at different times. The day was good. There was a storm. I couldn't figure out what it could mean. My pen was starting to get to me. It kept fading and I wanted to throw it. I did. It looked better on the floor anyway. |