i wish that we were still in your room

in your bed and you were holding me

*

i do my best not to think that this time last year i felt like i was embarking on an adventure for the first time in forever, full of uncertainty but expectation, hope and desire. All those things that make you feel alive when you've done nothing but exist for so long, stumbling through a poor excuse for life and doing nothing but working. i resist pulling out the pictures, avoid the curiosity of getting those two disposables finally developed because it's not going to make things better, it's just going to make it worse and send me back to some bottomless pit.

*

reading because i can't even look at tv, it holds my interest for mere seconds. finally reading The Catcher in the Rye for the first time ever, and while the style is still interesting after over 50 years, i think the ability for it to impact me passed long ago and all it does is make me cringe in places. i wonder if it may be possible that Salinger wrote the first instance of a drunk caller in American fiction, irritating converstation and embarassing reality of it all.

*

i'm afraid, bewildered, and feeling more hopeless all the time. i wish i could just sink all the way down and be done with it, but i'm still able to pull myself out at times, which makes it frustrating, because all my mind is doing is just going in circles. manic depressiveness perhaps, but it think it's just that everything is exaggerated because of circumstance. all i want to do is just get life moving again, move beyond all these uncertainties and start living again. let it happen, let it be, let it go.