EPTSo we end that dreary, cold and wet day. Of course it was perfectly sunny outside my window. The pervert was staring back at me, longing in desperation and clinging in fantasy. He grinned at me and I sighed, and fell onto my bed. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s always been a tingling weakness of mine to fester these kinds of relationships. I wish it wasn’t so.
Every week here is a disappointment. No more Frisbee, no more jam sessions with ‘the guys’. No idea what I know about life. No clue how to get up in the morning. Bright shiny morning used to be my go-to phrase during high school. Preaching it to myself so itchingly and hilariously. After those tremulous years. She asked me “what do you do all these nights?” Escapism, it’s nigh. I have no answer. I can only wait, pause, stumble, gather some kind of excuse. I’m reading Orwell now; it seems like a good thing to do. So many of the people I like seem so fond of it.
But enough of this dreariness. I could easily mumble on about the day and its predecessors, like I so finely do in front of myself in my bed. Let me recount the four days I spent in happiness playing the flute. It was on a hill, a grassy one if you can believe that. There was a tree beside me as I looked out onto the sea. Its leaves felt so full to me. It brought back the old feelings of candor in my heart. I felt like I was back at the age of seven when I can say this all began, when I grew conscious of myself and who I was. So there I was. On a hill, the wind whisping through my skin like a blanket, I was dancing through the effervescent sunrise. Well, I’d tell you the rest but you’ll know it when you realize it.
On this dark night, I feel the burning sensation taking over again. It reeks with atrophy and the design of malignancy. It does not give up, I know that. I heartfully fight it time after time through these long nights, though it seems as I give up my efforts to take action I somehow win the battle. An interesting turn of events in life.
Then there’s you. My dearest dreamer. Well, that’s how I found you anyway. It was about one and a half weeks ago I last found you in my dreams. You were with another lover, one I so despised. Prior to these encounters you had stopped responding to my requests for salience. I leave you now in hopes that I do not disturb the delicate balance that you create between my sanity and depravity.
I hate this place. The environment, the neighbourhood, the people, they all suck. Every night you can hear children and more often women screaming through the halls of this back alley locale. It never gets old, does it. Apathy and atrophy are the malignance of this place. Even now I can hear them screaming, like from some cabin in the woods, set ablaze, where no one can hear you cry for help. Can’t get enough of the creepy ass people here. The old cowboy and his fairly young and attractive daughter across the hall from me usually leave their door open. This grants us the great desire of being able to listen to their music so somberly might I add, and so graciously that they’ve chosen to play their lives out in front of us. Right next to them aint any better. You’ve got that cat-lady-esque figure of a woman who just happens to own a dog who, by god’s great strength and omnipresence of time, seems to enjoy making our entering and leaving our homes a complete and utter nuisance. And yes, Thank you for slamming your door so loudly the walls shake and the waves radiate through the halls and of course, the dog barks once again.
