Who's Kaylynn?
She's in here, somewhere. Too far too reach, probably in this lame body's ass. I don't mean lame in the sense that we use it now. Only in the "(of a person) inept or naive socially" sort of way. The dumbed down, useless, good for nothing form that I'm trapped somewhere inside of.
I know she's here because she's calling out to me. Begging me to be myself and to break out of this slump. Like it's a physical thing. A glass barrier that I should be able to shatter, with a push and a smile. It should be that easy. She says. It's not. She calls for me to write. I don't want to.
And that's how I know I'm not Kaylynn. She was a girl, mildly confident, attempting with her jokes, with an insatiable urge to create. To write, usually. Sometimes to doodle, or even sing. She loved her friends and handled her family. Appreciated and wanted to appreciate movies, books, art. Rarely yelled.
Right now I'm absent, floating in some empty space. I can't think, physically. My brain exists to only keep the blood moving. I wish my brain would stop. I fall asleep early because otherwise where writing would be (where talking would be, where laughing would be, where thinking would be) is nothing but empty hours. Might as well wait and watch the sunset. Countdown the hours to sleep, where I can finally feel.
Kaylynn, where are you. They like you better, I know. The energy. It's much better than the quiet, tired, distant form. Your friends don't know what to do. This is why they said see a therapist, alter your brain. They don't want to watch you waste your days like this. Waste your life like this. Speed towards death like this.
