SOFT and blurred and strange like urban carbon decay. i remember
- that year I skipped the haunted house to instead count lonely days
- and periods of my life measured by eyeliner type (from chalky to waxy to dark and smudgy)
- on bad nights I’d tally them up on a sticky note by the light switch that stood by a doodle of a pink cat with an arched back with a perplexed face that asked: why so sad?
- that my project looked happier than i felt and photos belied my true sentiments and only what i wrote was honest
- and the things i painted were honest, too, like the black poster-size painting of what loneliness felt like even though I was surrounded by scathing, laughing, faces, faceless faces I’d forget as soon as I turned away
- it felt like it’d be forever before I ever returned, that the walls were white and it’d be the last night (but not for long)
- I wished to move forward. I wished to leave. I asked: am I unhappy in the present because I live in the future, or do I live in the future because I am unhappy in the present?
- both. the present was shitty in the most pleasant way possible, and looking forward was escapism.
in retrospect, i had something (many things) to look forward to, and it’s here and it’s now. god, i know it’s cliche, but if only i could pause life right now, keep things just as they are….life, stay still. you are good, better than good, fingers-crossed things won’t change.