I am going to write through this: Pulsing tightening string pulling through me. Heavy ghosts hovering.
It hurts me not to be honest. And my definition of honest includes everyone always knowing everything. (I don’t know why.) To some degree, it always hurts. (That’s just the truth.)
Pain: My foot is feeling very real today. The kitten is biting my arm and I absent-mindedly throw him off. Tiny little cuts don’t hurt me.
The cursor keeps disappearing and I have to reset the settings and it’s irritating and coincidentally familiar. But the space bar isn’t sticking anymore, so.
Crying is much harder with glasses. I don’t cry as much as I used to. I was going to write about cliché today – crying is a cliché. (I’ll write about cliché next week.)
I am listening to my Bright Eyes radio station on Spotify to help breath. Music helps because I can melt into it.
E. says writing about Conor cheapens this but I think it’s a matter of cliché, which is a matter I intend to investigate here and therefore relevant.
What I really need is to get unstuck. With the space bar, compressed air. With me, we never know until happens. It usually involves running away or hiding.
The ghosts were forced to hover further, just around the edges, and the string is slack. Am I really talking about myself, and a real panic attack that happened today? I don’t know and neither should you.
What I really need is not possible. Extinct, which is permanent, or gone which is worse.