Is this my truth? Base personality so bitter. ANGRY. Raging and unable to see the calm. I am the storm; I have no calm before. Like a tidal wave it sweeps and consumes and I am defenseless against it. My lungs and brain fill with black bile that oozes throughout my being and fills every pore with hate. Why doesn’t music soothe my savage beast?
I stupidly confess to you and you want to help. I’m so out of breath, I can’t talk. I can’t tell you anything. And then I feel daft. Like a total pansy. Like a failure at life. This has nothing to do with me and I can’t rip myself off the couch and out of the house to live. I need to find something else. Something endless to occupy my time.
I run. I climb thousands of stairs. I try to expel every bit of energy so that nothing is left. I’m stripped down; naked. Nothing is left but these fucking tears. I hold onto them so tightly my soul is raw. In my head I have a million excuses: allergies, no sleep and too much eye rubbing. I think of leaving. Of selling everything and going to my Moulin Rouge. Live a penniless existence in the shadow of France.
Fear holds me in my place. I used to be fearless. A one way ticket half way across the world and a suitcase. I built a life on a field of sand. I stare out and see the city lights; from up here it almost looks glamourous. It almost feels like a world away. The cool air drifts in and with it, the sweet scent of change. In the distance, I can almost smell the exquisite sweetness of expensive perfume. I turn away from my window.
I try to stay quiet. I foolishly think that I can hide behind silence. My body fills with blood. Shutting up is so hard. I try to push it deep down and ignore it; I try to let it go. “I don’t care” like a fake mantra that tries to weasel itself into my head. I make a pro/con list. The con is empty. I am James Dean. He ended up dead, didn’t he?
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