Moss and Mushrooms

Stars will fall

A vent chapter.
TW: depression, hallucinations, suicide

Surreal
Reality folds in on itself.
This bedroom is the only real thing in this universe, no life exists outside its walls.
You watch as the world molds and changes.
It doesn't make sense and I don't mind.
It's both comforting and disheartening.
You haven't been high in months but you're yet to come down.
When will the world around me look real?
Why didn't I know better?
I listen to the same song over and over again.
This isn't real. I am waiting to wake up from a strange dream.
I remember when I slept on the couch as he slept in my bed.
Strange how things change.
I am not making sense, aren't I? Nothing makes sense.
The drugs linger endlessly and relentlessly, you may stray far away from them but I am yet to forget them.
Everything I view and think and write is shaped by them.
Everything is through the lens of the addict, always.
I'm tired of talking about it. I'm tired of thinking about it. I'm tired of writing about it. But I am not done.

Endlessly and relentlessly
Nothing going nowhere.
I feel like I don't care like I used to, like I wish I did.
One day so many things held so much value, I wanted to be something and I knew I would, there were so many things that made me happy.
But I always come back to this.
It feels that there is nothing of importance. What am I working towards? What is the reason behind it all? Why bother trying?
This is true more than I would ever like to elaborate.
What's the point if I go to bed every night feeling like this?
What is of value to me? Why don't I care like I should?
There's so much to love, there's so much to be happy about, there's so much more to write about besides this hollow feeling in my chest, and yet I find myself always returning to nights like these.
I find it hard to see myself going anywhere. I find it hard to imagine myself growing out of this bedroom, it's hard to imagine myself growing up.
I'll pretend and pretend, I'll pretend things make sense to me, I'll pretend that I'm going to find my way through this, I'll pretend that I've found my happiness, but I haven't.
I walk around an empty home looking for the thing that will fill me, it is not in my old favorite things, it is in the fridge, it is not in staring at a screen, it is not in this poem. I don't know where it is.