Maybe I’ll Catch Fire.

The only song I wanted to hear tonight, the only words that have been running through my head all day…they aren’t making me feel better.

I feel sad, bummed over something that isn’t my fault, and am unable to set it right with anyone. Especially myself.

My day started out perfect enough, and my afternoon brought more happiness than I expected. Things shouldn’t be this easy, but they are, and I am soaking it up slowly…being careful to store away the best parts of everything, taking notes and making memories.

Last call for alcohol? Maybe.

Everything fell apart though, as it often does, and I slipped back into what I never wanted to know again. Anxiety, tears, anger, shock, sadness. For a time, I was seeing red, and I hated myself for it. Nothing was solved, I have a permanent stomach ache, and I’m playing the same song on repeat.

It’s only making me sad, but at least I’m sane. And alive.

“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you’ll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I’m so angry and the truth is I’m so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.”

“…yet here we are for the moment, alive. Each of us knowing we’re going to die, each of us secretly believing we won’t.”

Maybe I’ll catch fire.
Maybe I already have.

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