𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 | billie eilish

010

wednesday - november 4, 2020

𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧
𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟑, 𝟔:𝟓𝟎𝐚𝐦
𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

I'm glaring at my own reflection in the mirror while I'm trying to apply my mascara as cleanly as possible. If only my hands weren't trembling that much, it would facilitate the process a million times.

I'm unsure about why that was the sudden case, but last night after the spontaneous hookup I couldn't sleep.

Thoughts were rambling through my head,

rambling in such an aggressive manner that uncomfortably tossing from left to right in my bed was the outcome of that.

I rested for hardly four hours, no more.

Nevertheless, there's no clever excuse for not being able to attend today's day of school.

Tiredness can be easily treated with sleep, and it's my fault if I don't commit to it and let the voices in my head dominate my actions instead. I wish I could shut them up, but their power is immense. I'd lose every battle against them. Thus it's not even worth trying to fight them, they'll be there forever, accompany me wherever my way leads me, watch my every step, criticize me until my crying is about to cut my breath off.

My chest rises as I inhale deeply and take a step away from the mirror I am aimlessly staring at.

My eyelashes have seen better days. Back when I'd actually take off my makeup in the evening and not just reapply a new clumpy layer of mascara the next morning.

You don't even know how much I'd like to take care of myself for once but whenever I'm about to do it, everything feels so heavy all of a sudden and I just can't move. My limbs are frozen. My surroundings suddenly all are unrealistic. The time is either moving so slow I watch it go by or it is sprinting away from me so quickly that there's no chance for me to get a hold on it.

Just another one of my derealization episodes.

By force I drag a chapstick across my lips to secure them from appearing desiccated, prior to donning my clothing items on.

A dark turtleneck sweater and a pair of plain black chino pants. In September.

The material itself is unlikely to smother me, but the temperature outside of the house will gladly help with that.

And if my clothes are too shy to suffocate me, my consciousness will at least let me down once in the middle of the day.

Although I despise my outer presence beyond doubt, I scan my covered body once again and come to the conclusion of complete dissatisfaction with my outfit.

But I've lost all my nerves to choose another combination for today, thus inhaling quiveringly is the ultimate thing that happens before I leave the bathroom.

Once I grabbed my Eastpak backpack, I shuffle down the stairs with my head held down and my eyes glued to the movements of my feet.

Only the thought of taking something edible to me in the morning makes my stomach cramp and I become indescribably nauseous.