“You said you would, so really you should,”
“I should? I should? Why should I do anything?”
“I should? I should? Why should I do anything?”
There’s an exhaustion in my bones. Sometimes I just lie on my bed feeling like I can’t move, but then I get up, and do something big. Big like cooking a ton of food to freeze. Is it a bizarre type of laziness? Being prepared?
I feel inspired to write at the most inappropriate times and sometimes consider carrying a little tape recorder around with me so I can dictate my thoughts as I drive. I suppose my phone would suffice. But I don’t and my thoughts often just float away. My creative being is sort of squatting inside me as I get on with the shoulds, until creativity becomes a should, a something to be scheduled and controlled.
As I sit on my bed, with a newly discovered cover of “Black Hole Sun” on repeat, I’m tempted to grab a canvas and just drag paint covered hands across it. I want to attack a canvas. I want to lean off the balcony and give out a primal scream. I want the parts of me to realign. I’m even sure that I knew that I was out of line until I typed it right now. I’ve been describing my mood as lonely-antisocial all day – weird, I know that I’m actually just on a depressed wave. A weird limbo of needing rescue without being able to shout loud enough for it. But no means do I need people to phone me or rush over to my flat. I’d love it if someone abandoned a tub of ice-cream on my welcome mat. If someone drove me through the drive thru for a MacFlurry and then dropped me at home. I think I’m also feeling financial strain – I get down when I feel like all my money is for petrol. Food is a drug, spending money is a drug; spending money on junk food is the ultimate relapse… or the closest to a relapse that I could allow. If I had wine, and technically I do, would I drink it? No. Smoking has never been my thing so sinking back into a smoky cloud of herbs doesn’t appeal. I don’t feel like acting whole with a lipstick smile while I pull my tummy in… so I can’t be bothered to indulge my sycophantic needs in the company of men. I feel too selfish to listen to stories about anyone else’s life so that rules out the rest of humankind. So this leaves food and money, and we’ve established those are a no go. So I’m a junkie without a fix.
So I’m a junkie without a fix. And in this moment I feel relief. I’m a junkie without a fix.
With a wry smile, I remember why I love to write, it's like an emotional purge, and now I can get on with my life.
