Candlelit midnights

Sleeping lessons

A chapter inspired by a song that I suspect will be nostalgic for me in the future.

Black canvas
It's hard to separate yourself from it, it's hard to know where to draw the line between you two.
It's become such a large part of your life that you don't recognize your reflection without it.
You see the toll it's taken, it's left you with an awful taste in your mouth, but you don't mind and you always come back looking for more, always.
You have watched the painting you poured so many hours into slowly be painted over black, stroke by stroke, it's different but it's all the same.
You think things are different now and they may be but black paint is not known for being subtle, you think you may be able to keep your paintings scenic and colorful, but you can't quite tell which ones will be painted over.
You've accepted this as a part of the way things are and the way you are because you don't really know what else to do.
You tried to be different, you really did, but you didn't want it bad enough, you may never want it bad enough.
It stings knowing you tried to do something else and ended up right back where you started, so much so that you hope you never try this new way of life again, because you won't last, you know you won't.
You hate how consistent it is, how no matter where you go it will always be there, and every day you find yourself where you shouldn't be.
You hate yourself for this, the fact that it's in every moment, that you can't go without it, you can't take it off of you, it's always there.

Walking down the middle of the street
You're kicking yourself for not being how you wish you were.
You're kicking yourself for being brave and trying but also for not trying hard enough, you can only walk on one side of the street, and you failed, quietly, but it does ache.
You thought you'd be different by now and you tried to be, but you're really not, not by much at least, and how mortifying it is to admit that.
You don't think things will fall apart this time and they may not but if you forget one thing on the checklist it all breaks into pieces, how ugly that will be, you hate the feeling that your house is built on a foundation of feathers, one wrong step and it's no longer the home it should be.

The writings you like to read
When you read poetry it often ends up feeling like you asked for a bouquet and ended up with one or two flowers. You love your half filled vase, but it is a little empty and you wonder what lies outside these few flower beds in the garden.
You rarely understand the words they use, you can't read between the lines and talk or think about what the metaphors really mean.
You'd love to sit down and read and dissect what the author was saying but when you open your poetry books you find yourself closing your book soon after.
It's not that you don't like it, maybe one day you will, but you don't understand it, rarely do you really feel that connection with a poem.
But you love writing poetry and talking about it and learning about it.
Your favorite kind of poetry is the thing that feels like an author spilled themselves onto the page, you imagine them writing messily and quickly because there was so much passion that they couldn't contain themselves.
You love hearing about people and their life and their thoughts, you were never one for fantasy, the human condition is enough in itself.
You love the mess of it all, the rambles and the smeared black ink.

Smeared black ink
You love your life today, you feel as if you aren't having to run away quite like you used to.
Sometimes you do have to run and lock yourself in the closet for a little while, but it's not the same as it used to be.
You started sleeping in your bed again, you used to sleep in a blanket fort on the floor because you didn't want to be in the bed it happened in, but he's not here anymore, you're not being hurt anymore.
You feel that you are finally seen and accepted in your entirety, she knows you and she loves you and you love her.
You used to feel bad all the time, your heart ached and you were a glass not even half full, now you don't feel that way.
For much of your life you hated yourself and you truly believed you were unlovable, but today you know otherwise.
Things used to be so painful and confusing, and even in your darkest moments they don't hurt like they used to.

The rain
This ever growing part of your life is nothing if not a persisting, consistent, ruthless rain.
You hear it in every moment, it's not a question as to when, it is always there like rain hitting a metal roof, you can ignore the sound of the water droplets hitting the spot right above your bedroom, but it's always there, and in the quiet moments it's a little louder than it used to seem.
In your darkest hour, when it's late and everything you try to swallow during the day becomes a painful lump in your throat the rain becomes harder to ignore.
How could you ignore it?
You turn up the music but you don't want to wake your father so you lay on your back and stare at your ceiling and in that moment of looking at the white wall you can feel every drop of water, as if you were laying on the roof like you lay in this bed.
You tried to be different, you really tried to change because you couldn't live like this anymore, but you didn't change, and you continue living in the very ways you swore you'd never find yourself being able to live anymore.

Summer time
For a while you were where you wanted to be.
The past wasn't something you couldn't get out of your mind, you had so many lovely moments in which life felt okay again.
You felt a yellow light in your chest, life was a beautiful story, you were standing at the edge of it in awe of its beauty.
You tried to capture the water and the trees in your writing but they don't have words for them yet.
Things were too perfect to verbalize.
You hope this will not end but you wonder if the seasons are changing.
You are so scared that summer is coming to an end.

Obsessive
You are consumed by this obsession, almost entirely, and more than you'd like to admit.
It's the first thing you think about when you wake up, you find it as quickly as the morning will let you, it fills your head and your day, it captures your last thoughts before you sleep and you often dream about it.
It takes up so much space in your mind and in your life, leaving little room for everything else, it is the crowd in the room and all other facets of your life are pushed up against the edges and corners.
He is great company, you can almost always find him even on the busiest of streets, and when he leaves you will spend every moment wishing he hadn't, even when you spend time with someone else, you will be waiting for him.
You know you shouldn't spend every moment waiting for him, especially when you're with someone who's not him, but knowing that doesn't change anything, but you know it should.