Catacombs

catacombs you dare not dare go
and you went as deep as you could
I don't regret that

Nothing and Everything Left

The year is 2017. Donald Trump is the United States president. I live on Martin Luther King Jr Way. Connor is my roommate, and I am sick of and jaded by his lack of independence. Bree is my other roommate and seems to get home after 6pm every day, microwave her popcorn, and watch shows wig her foot shut, she leaves for work before I get out of bed. She has a boyfriend or something, who I haven't really seen or spoken to. Connor is dating Christine, she's smart and informed, she's pretty, and talks with a unique drawl I am drawn to. Gaspar is doing well, he got fleas and Jae and I gave him a shower. I am no longer naive enough to believe we are not together. I have lost track of the number of months that he has been living here in my room. I don't mind, and barely attempt to keep a semblance of my privacy. It is unlike any relationship of any kind that I have had before. There is a distance and closeness that sway and balance beautifully. My friends are all doing well, Austin isn't really but I have faith that he will. I talk to Lizz every day and things seem to be as good as they could be. I go back home less. I see Alex when I do, I try to see Catherine. Leif has a girlfriend now, and I feel far from him. The tiny bond broken. I live in a much less romantic minestate constantly, now being in a relationship. Addison follows me on twitter, I made out with Blaine and haven't been thinking about it much since. Life can change so fast, and so slow. I like to think I shower more, I have a healthier detachment from food, I sleep a little more comfortable and sound. I didn't expect to meet someone so harsh and cruel, angry, at the world but not at me. He is so soft, a child like innocence in his voice and in his eyes. He doesn't scare me, but I feel powerless against his deep seated self loathing and torment. He seems fond of my innocence, the kindness I bring out in him, the selflessness. We flourish in knowing this is helping. He does my dishes, with the hands of my grandfather. I stare at the shape of his lips, the softness. He is calm, until he is not. My days are even shorter now. I struggle to clean, read, write, call people. Predictably a constant faint letdown feeling. The knowledge I am weaker alone I fear, but more of myself. He doesn't mind what I hate about myself, just like I with him. But he still hits his face hard, and I still fucking hate myself. How will this end? Don't we all wonder? Taking control is never having to guess, wait, or be fooled. I let the flow carry me like water. I let time get the best of me. I ran out of money so long ago. I tread in the water I convince others I float in. The only privacy, the only self that we have left is our thoughts, our deepest feelings kept save in our head. But computers will take those soon, too, and we will know the reality of having nothing.