On nights like this, I just want to be left the fuck alone.
Maybe it's the hunger. Maybe it's the stress at work. Maybe it's the lack of funds. Maybe it's the weight of responsibilities. Maybe it's the knowledge of the Staph infection I'm about to start treating. Maybe it's the feeling of missing my real guys, my siblings, YOLO, Sam, and Dee. I miss Vee, too. We don't vibe at all, but he's sibling still. Maybe it's the thought of how some things are beyond my control, things that have the potential to effect a change in my feelings, and maybe my life.
You know, Dad sent a text.
"Son, you are so busy not to pick up calls nor return calls. Pls, create time. Life is brief and short. Happy New Month."
I felt angry, bitter, sad, indifferent, and more, all at once, or in a very quick succession of hormone rush.
I left him on read. Not this time. Maybe after a while, I'll respond. But not this time. Maybe later. Maybe never. Maybe when it's too late to do so. But not this time.
I'm sitting naked on my toilet seat and listening to Phora's latest album "Lucky Me", and I don't feel lucky. Or maybe I'm lucky.
I paid my dues, in very appropriate quantities, and I'm still doing so. I offered the sacrifice(s) needed to grow from where I was to where I'm at, and I did so in gracious measures, much more than was probably required. Or maybe this is what this path requires. Maybe that's why I don't call myself lucky. It's my blood on fucking hot coals we're looking at. Nah. That ain't luck. That's fucking transactional. My life for life. My blood for breath. My sweat for the smell of fresh air. That's sacrifice, man. Paid in full.
But maybe I'm lucky. Cos really, how many get to taste this bittersweet delicacy called freedom? How many crave and desire this, yet will die with this life existing as just a dream? Maybe I'm lucky after all.
But then, who the fuck cares?
I'm just a nobody living life and doing my best at it with what I have like some billion other nobodies. All it'll take is just time, and we'll all be fucking Ozymandias. Once great, now forgotten. Buried away in the sands of existence. Maybe a part of us will hang out of the mud, history bringing up our names in a few circles. But we're gone. Really gone. Our time, up. Done and dusted.
Melancholia is a sweet friend, especially if it's in the company of its lover, Loneliness. They present as perfect guests for quiet nights like this.
On nights like this, I miss my mum. I wonder how much she would've aged. I haven't seen her in 2 years. I wonder, would she have greyed much? Would she be wearing the pretty wrinkles of winter as she smiles? Would her spirit still be gay and light as fluttering butterflies in a field of blooming yellow bells? Would she still be as energetic as she was when I left home? Woman was still on about planting crops and raising poultry.
I miss the comfort of her quiet. She can be a huge pain in the ass sometimes, but I miss her voice. And this is not something telephones can make up for. I miss her aura. I miss her energy. Her presence. Her essence.
I'm getting drained. I feel it. Melancholy seems to be wrapping up for the night. I wish it'd stay with me awhile.
I don't what's up with Tega and Praise. I know they're concerned about my well-being. But people should learn to sit and accept the quiet of fellow beings. I rarely get this way around them, so I understand their unease.
I think Praise cooked dinner and Tega served it down. I really wanted to just sleep with this hunger. And wake up tomorrow to continue the interesting and tiring party of peopling and diverse engagements.
I'll leave this bathroom soon. I should shower, eat, and sleep. Today is almost gone. It's 21:47. Tomorrow has its problems and challenges.
I feel lightheaded. Maybe writing helped. Maybe it helps. Especially when Mel. and Lon. sips wine with you.
I've moved on to Phora's "The Butterfly Effect" album. Currently, "Find Hope" is spinning.
Hope. The opium of soldiers on battlefields. The coke of sailors in raging storms.
Hope. Very funny word.
