How to describe what I feel? I'll start with the simple things. It's just on the plus side of warm tonight - slash - this morning. My left knee hurts on the left side of it, near the back of the patella and slightly underneath, making me limp a little. On a drunken scale of 1 to 10, I'm at a 3. I've been drinking constantly since I got off work. I feel gyp'd.
I feel like I've, on the whole, faked out the anxiety today. That means I've successfully distracted myself from it for most of the time that I've been conscious today. It's like hide - n - seek. Funny, I just thought of that. Not that there hasn't been anxiety... just not mine, primarily. I'm sorry. It's just today.
Cops have been being where I've been being a lot tonight. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, being tailed by the DPD as I wander aimlessly after work night after night after night, thousands of times. I think they used to hope that they'd catch me felonizing something. Now after so long, I think they're just bored and checking out what the familiar ghosts are wandering, and doing to.
I wonder what kind of nick name they've given me. The Roving Red Handed Reader. That's how I'd nick myself if I did. I wonder if the DPD has a nick-name for me. That's something, huh? How many people would realistically have cause to wonder something like that?
If my knees could cry, there would be dirty rivulets running down them. Like right this moment, I feel disappointed and deflated. It's not for any particular reason. It's just a feeling I almost had a few severals of clusters of seconds ago, that didn't pan out You know?
Now, now I am starting to feel terrible, just like I want to force open a rusty valve wheel, like in an old submarine, and scream out all of the years and years of wails and sorries in one loud and obnoxious and ugly HONK, to wake up the neighborhood at five ay em.
Brcause misery loves company. But I didn't, and instead, I'm doing this thing. My brain broke a couple of years ago, as if, things weren't, bad enough, already. It broke, right on the nudge of the crack between the oh wells and what ifs, right above the I'm sorrys, I'm losts, it hurts"s and forgive me's..
I feel my footsteps on the sidewalk like colors. Brown for the heel striking the cement, black for the toes after, and over again and over again, and over. And shades of gray rolling underneath. A rich tapestry of blackish & white-ish sorrow, and I'm on top of the narrow concrete wheel of it, walking it and making it spin, and giving it life.
Damn. That just then, I think, was probably the most depressing thing I've ever spelt out.
I don't know what hurts more. Being sorry, or being too tired to make up for it. Is that a natural human condition? I don't want 'sorry and afraid and exhausted' to be the words that described my life, but you know...want in one hand, and take a big ole ugly, smelly dump in the other, and see which one gets filled up with the molecular by-products of complex life, and then wonder what the 'f a miracle is, or if the word is just a synonym for a practical joke. Oh, a big one, I mean. A big practical joke. Not just a normal one, like on April Fools. I mean a... a quantum one, or something.