The Hoplite

seven

"Godspeed, my dear. You didn't even know what hit you, only had the scars to prove it. Jesus, Mary, and i am a void again."

23/12/2023

Everything is changing rapidly and I am staying here, still, in place, unwilling to budge. Everyone tells me it's okay to rest for a bit. But, here I am, frozen in space while all of you are growing and expanding and achieving. And it's an ache and it smells like mold. That's the whole truth-that's all there is, really. I am locked home, scribbling and scribbling and listening to jazz and chain-smoking and doing nothing. And being horrible and making no sense at all.

You're continuously ripping yourself apart, and telling me you don't mind. It'll fall into place. Will it truly? I need a purpose, I need something palpable, call it medication, call it a calling. Dare to say reinvention. I need it now that i know. What if sobriety is not something that's meant for me? What if it is my nature to fall away after I hit a wrong turn once? Maybe I am meant to be jumping jobs forever and maybe I am meant to scribble nonsense and maybe I am meant to smoke forever and work as a waitress and maybe I am meant to be sick, maybe it's all true. Maybe I am meant to make mess wherever I go. But is that fair to you? Is it fair to me? 

I was going to die old and content. I was going to have it. I nearly had it.