If I woke up tomorrow and nothing hurt, I would assume I was dead.
When I was a kid, I used to tend to cry a lot.
I was one of those kids who could pretty much cry the house down.
So, when I turned twelve and started to realise that I was incapable of crying, I was quite surprised.
I would spend a lot of my time trying to make myself miserable. Nothing seemed to work. I didn’t even feel sad, let alone shed a tear.
People would tell me I was a horrible person and I seemed to believe them because I didn’t feel like a good person at all. No kid would if they were unable to cry at a funeral.
5 years from then and I am still the same person. Weirdly enough, I don’t feel as horrible as I did, even though I’ve done a lot of things I wouldn’t consider very nice since then.
However, I remained curious about my inability to feel, so I decided to experiment. I know a lot of people who don’t cry very often but could quench all of Africa’s thirst if they were physically hurt. That’s when it hit me that that was exactly what I needed to do.
I stood there unwrapping a new blade,
taking off my jeans, holding it against my waist.
I took a breath and ran it down my thigh.
As I saw it sink into my skin, the blood trickling down my leg,
I felt myself smirk.
I could just imagine how I looked at that moment.
My thigh tingled, and for the first time in days,
I felt at peace.
I felt her cold hands on my back,
my legs held her up.
As our necks found a rhythm,
she was in my head,
and our eyes were one.
Her eyes were some colour I can’t remember
but her lips were as red as my wrists.
My teeth were a part of her now
and I almost unearthed her soul.
As her toes buried themselves in my bed,
I felt all of me go numb,
and that’s when I knew,
my lungs moved to her command.
Some mornings I wake up feeling like I’ve had a much crazier night than Pete Wentz in 2005 but it’s probably just my head playing games with me.
Or the lack of sleep. Or the sinful amount of coffee. I don’t mind though.
When I hit the bed after days of no sleep, I could just stay there forever.
Peckish, warm, frail. I like that feeling. It’s one of the few times I don’t feel angry. The probably however is when I have to get out of bed.
I stumble, crawl and give up.
Vertigo. Nausea. Weakness.
It’s not sleep that I hate. It’s more the feeling of waking up that I loathe.
I’m quite sure not everyone wakes up like I do, but then again, not everyone’s ill all the time like I am.
I am not an insomniac, I might just be losing my mind.
1. Writing to me is like heroin to Amy Winehouse.
2. A pen and paper just don’t cut it anymore.
3. I like saying “I have a blog”.
4. I always leave entries unfinished and that does not look good in books.
If you love something, give it away. Just don’t let it fuck someone.
When it gets dark, everything’s surprisingly clear.
Like your intentions. Mine on the other hand are mostly shy.
As I sit here staring at my coffee, I can’t help but think about us.
The time we finally let go and let it unfurl.
I remember standing there and realising that the only sparks in that room were the ones Coldplay were singing about in the background.
I tried so hard to convince myself that eventually I would feel something but I knew it was a mistake the moment I tasted the cheap weed on your tongue.
Now, I’m left with memories I loathe and coffee that’s almost as cold as my heart.