Every Other Night

I’m listening to Crazy Love by Van Morrison and Everybody Hurts by REM in repetitive cycles. It’s a bad combination for a rainy night like this one. The flashes of lightning rip in through the windows lighting up my eyes but for a moment, and I just want more. I want thunder until it rumbles so loud that I can’t hear the madness of my own thoughts, so powerful that I fear something else other than the destruction of myself, that I may feel anything but how I feel right now.

I want to be crouched in the rain, sobbing in a corner and smoking. I want each rain drop to slightly pierce my skin enticing just a smattering of blood, the combination rolling off my skin to meet in a puddle below me.

I want to feel any kind of pain but the kind that resides in my heart. I want to feel direct pain from a consequence of something defined, something tangible that I can blame or call my mistake. Pain from a punch, pain from an accident, pain from heartbreak.

Instead I just feel frustratingly alone and so, so lost. I live this life of quiet desperation waiting for someone to rescue me from myself, while I’m surrounded by shining people. People I can call my friends who I dare not pour out my soul to. I’m afraid they would laugh, or even worse, not understand. People who are incapable of seeing past my tired smiles and heavy footsteps. People who overestimate how strong I really can be. People who have no idea how desperate and wanting I feel inside. I wonder if someone from above sees me as a black smudge against a pool of flowing silver.

I get to go places, I get to meet a few people, I have soundness of body, shelter and family. Materialistically I possibly have more than I dare ask for.

Maybe I don’t go places enough, but when shopping becomes just a chore there’s nothing I really like to do but watch movies alone. Games, hanging-out, clubs, parties, concerts; it’s all worn out for me. Nothing seems right when the company lacks something.

Maybe I don’t meet people enough, but there’s no one I can really relate to. There are various disconnected people whom I share various things with, but there’s no one person who knows all of me. Meeting new people is always a let down, but maybe my expectations are too high.

There’s nothing wrong, there’s nothing really right. Everything is just barely balancing on the tip of a nail in this state of limbo. I’m working towards something, there’s a vague end goal… but getting there has become this routine; this series of ever unchanging events. And that’s all it is… there’s nothing in there. Nothing to excite, entice or even cry about. Nothing to feel anything real about.

I want to be able to say to someone, “Remember the time we did that crazy thing we did?” without cringing.

There’s no one here yet to rescue me, for me to rescue in turn, so I need to leave. I want to feel the strangeness of a bustling city and the oneness of the mountains. I want to feel background music. I want to feel like I belong somewhere. There’s so much I want to feel other than hopeless, but the wells of those senses lie elsewhere. I’d like to think I’d eventually find them, but it’s becoming increasingly less likely.