L is for Lists...

Two nights ago you told me about your lists. You told me about how they stress you out, make you anxious. I didn't tell you, but I was envious. I make lists, but not of plans, not of goals, not for my future. They are all things I've seen, mistakes I've made, places I've been, things I've fucked up. I heard a man sing this morning that memories are sinking ships that will never will be saved. That is where this came from, that is where my head is right now.

I am anxious. Every second of the day. There is a countdown in my head. It currently stands at twenty days.

I've seen things end. I've watch myself strike the match that burns bridges to the ground. But this time, this time, not so much. I've never been in a leaky boat, but I can feel the water coming over my feet. My arms aren't moving fast enough. I can't row to shore; I can't bail the water out. The boat is deep, over my head, and I can't see which way to go. The water isn't stopping, it won't stop, and it will be over my head soon rather than later. I can't swim. I have no place to go.

But I have to sit there.

I have to make the hole bigger. I have to make more water come in. I have to sink deeper. I have to fall harder.

I made a soundtrack to this catastrophe. I have made a few. They play all the time, on loop in my head, on repeat in my heart, and on never ending in my room. My housemates must hate these songs. Too bad for them. In twenty days they will probably hate me.

Dark suits. Ties. The saddest songs ever.

Twenty days. It's all over in twenty days. Two months of the best days, the happiest nights, the most intense thoughts, feelings, discussions, trips, life. Twenty more days.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe I am actually figuring all of this out. I don't seem to be making the same mistakes. I don't seem to have the same sort of unrealistic notions of my life.

Right?

I'm not writing this hungover, checking my sent messages for my feet, drinking a beer, eating stolen chips, waiting for someone to call who isn't going to; am I?

To quote myself, worse case scenario we're falling apart.

12/26

memorial day redux

Every single hateful, angry, spiteful, baiting and horrible thing said by myself ran on repeat through my head. The list not as long as it could be, but still entirely too long. I sat in front of the door and watched as things got folded up, or stuffed into bags or thrown across the room. I said things that in the past may have calmed the situation down, or at least now make me feel better, but never worked. Tears and more tears. Finally it was agreed for one more night we would try. I didn't sleep alone. But I figured out that you don't have to be the person you have always been. And sometimes in the morning everything is ok.

monday morning, 1:46 am

I'm listening to old mixes, looking at old photos. thinking old thoughts, waiting for phone calls that I didn't even know I was waiting for. I may sound sad, but I am really happy. I'm just putting x's on calendars for the next 5 days. It feels right to say it, life is good.

somewhere there is a wagon

I own a large package. It is not my dick. It is a box of self-destruction. It manifests itself in areas of addiction: booze, women, writing, music, using people for my own happiness. I make horrible decisions. I say horrible things. I look out for only myself. And that is me. There is no hidden aspect of my life. Ask me, and I will tell you. I don't worry about coming off as a sinner or a saint, because I am usually both. I just worry about living. It gets me into trouble. It makes me feel alive.

I have spent the last week thinking about the same thing. How to approach it. How to handle it. How to respond to it without being crazy. But I am crazy. And it is wearing me down. And I think they know it. And I think I am playing into their hands.

I owe bobb a mix, it will show up tomorrow.