Time Again

Today has been very bad. It's my own fault. I let myself become the dark rain cloud. No one could help me. I tried, sort of. As far as what I did, I only left the house to take out the recycle, that felt really bad. My body hurts when it gets like this, nothing holds my attention, and I can't fathom anything. It had the desperate, pathetic apathy of a weekday. The isolation. I made eggs as I do, apple and almond butter, the same salad, laid on the couch. I attempted to think up little potential cures. Instead, I thought about crawling in a hole and dying. I read a story about a failed group suicide. It wasn't very good. The hopelessness covered me thick and heavy. I might go home this week, I will this weekend, if not. Self-care is important and I am putting myself first, no exceptions. I care about work more than anything in my life right now, it feels weird, it feels like what it feels like when you realize something needs you. I saw Lizz and Austin today, they came home for a moment. Lizz acted as though she was sick of my shit, Austin wouldn't speak a word to me and I hardly thought anything of it. I want to be in town, for once, but I want to lay in Jillian's bed, I want to talk to Dylan, and I want to float on water. If it gets worse in the days to follow, and work requires that I stay the week, I may call someone. Real help. Money should be so irrelevant when it comes to matters of the heart or soul, or whatever. (It is actually chemicals in my brain, or the wiring.) I picture myself lying here in bed, like I have been for countless hours, and now everyone is out laughing and drinking and caring about nothing. Sarah told me to come to Prize Fighter "for a drink", but I couldn't. We'll see how tomorrow goes. I can't believe I will soon be sitting at my desk at work, staring through the door to the left and through the double doors outside of that door, into the sliver of visible outside. Getting off of work is like that feeling where you have the world at your fingertips, but your hands are too preoccupied toying with the lid of your water bottle. You reflect half-fondly on all of your passion and potentional, and then you die.

(She came and laid on the bed for a second, at the bottom, for feeling sorry for me. She kept her distance, and couldn't touch me, I figured in fear of catching this like a cold. I was just as concerned of this as she. She told me that she loved me, three times, the first two out of routine, the third I am not certain. I couldn't bring myself to say it, or love anything at all.)