blur

you can't remember what day it is, or how long you've been laying here. even when you're awake nowadays it feels like you're sleeping.

you can't remember what day it is, or how long you've been laying here, pressed up against a pile of pillows it's too hot for, with your eyes not really focusing on the shadowy imprint of the fan whirling overhead. the green-glowing numbers of the clock beside your bed have lost their meaning, and the calendar in the kitchen just seems to ripple into blank pages.

 

your mouth tastes like bile. your voice has been scratchy for who knows how long but still you attempt to whisper words of one song, always that one song over and over because anything else sounds dissonant and hurts your head. your teeth are unbrushed, your hair is dirty, you're in the same clothes from yesterday and the day before. sometimes you don't have the energy to make it out of bed, opting to drizzle some stagnant water over your cracking lips, from cups that have to be within arms reach, and attempt to fall asleep again when even the sun seems ominous.

 

other times, you peel your sweaty cocoon off you and open your laptop, eyes stinging, and you watch movies you haven't seen in years until it's 7 am and you realize you've forgotten to sleep. you close the laptop and pull the covers over your head anyway, because there's no point in being awake, hoping when you are it's cool and dark and there's not as much noise.

 

days blur together and become weeks. you receive text messages--obnoxious vibrating and garish lights--but you don't want to talk to anyone and you ignore them, even though these people are probably what others would consider good friends. if they talk about sleepovers (at their house of course, never yours, you always insisted) you recoil now, and if you're forced to the phone you bullshit excuses with your dirty hands, nails bitten bloody and with scrapes along the knuckles, scrapes you don't remember getting there. eventually you decide it's easier to just not answer; you couldn't care less anymore. you suppose you must have once but it's hard to think of those times.

 

at three am, you microwave corn dogs in your s****y microwave that always makes them cold on one side, no matter how long they're in for, and fill up a new glass of water that's mostly ice and that doesn't taste like dust. you eat because you want to and not because you're hungry, which is stupid because you know you're going to get fat if you sit in bed all day. you realize it's hard to care about that too. you eat three slices of cake straight from the container (even though it's true what she said, however long ago, nothing tastes good to you anymore) and wrap yourself in sheets and try to close your eyes.

 

you wake, you fall asleep, you wake again but it's hard to tell which times are which since all your dreams are basically the same now. in last sleep's (you think), you followed your unknown quarry through an old neighborhood under a suffocating blanket of sun,  and the sleep before that (probably) you were fleeing through that same neighborhood at night. you don't recognize it even though you probably should; you've lived in too many to keep them straight in your mind, and they all coalesce into winding roads that you're always lost in, because you were never any good with directions anyway.

 

even when you're awake nowadays it feels like you're sleeping.

 

green clock-numbers flicker.

Reviews

[PyroKitty24]

And isn't this really just what life is? I can relate. I think it was a nice write, but it would have been nice to see some capitalization. Besides that, very good job~