Everything about me screams weakness. How did I get here and how do I go back? And back to where? Back to when? I don’t even know what I’m asking for, always stuck in this mental shrine of what I (supposedly) once was. Don’t trust memories, folks. They lie. Or people. They lie even more. Or anything, really. If I were you, I’d just self-isolate until the scary world out there magically gets better. Don’t trust me either (I don’t).
I rot in this room and I let all the things I value rot alongside me. I don’t write and I don’t sing and, god help me, I don’t talk to my friends either. I could attribute this to my mental state and call it a day, but I know better, and by that I mean that I’m no saint, so save your prayers.
unpleasant conversations 