I keep dreaming of dry-warm summer afternoons, stretching in the sun like a cat upon a quilt and a book balanced before my eyes. Yellowed library books, their plastic covers brittle and cracking, and sunsets stained red by wildfire smoke. Wind howling down from the mountains, the smell of fireweed and the bitter taste of currants on my lips, read smeared across my face. Frost on the windows, smoky tea and warm oatmeal with buttered sourdough toast. White cloud skies, blankets, and cozy dogs. Fat fluffy snowflakes drifting down outside the mexican restaurant's wide windows. Fresh tacos, and words written.
I am told I'm looking for a quick fix, but I don't think I am? I want a flotation device - something to hold on to, to pull my head above water so I can breath. I think I could make it back to shore on my own, if I had that. I've made it so far on my own. Aren't they the ones, looking for a quick fix? Just take this vitamin, do this exercise, suck it up and stop wallowing in self pity and everything will be alright again? I got you a smoothie this week, why are you sad, lonely, angry? I hate the thing you love, so let's do the thing I love and you hate.
So no, I'll stay home and try to find a reason to tick another day off the calendar. Maybe someday I'll live again. Maybe this is all there is, day after day. Isn't the mystery exciting? But I don't need to harm myself with toxic company in the meantime.
Food is weird. I don't feel hungry, which... isn't exactly right. More like I just don't feel like eating. There's nothing I want to eat, even though food tastes good - put some in front of me and I'll eat it all. Gorge it down, as if I've been starving this whole time. I don't know what's hunger, and what's emotion eating - bored eating, comfort eating. Emotional eating is awful because it works. For a moment the emptiness goes away. But there's no pleasure in it anymore. Sandbags against a tsunami.
I should answer my messages. Just thinking about them is... a certain kind of exhaustion. It's the... knowledge that it isn't a one off message, but a conversation? I'm thinking of internet free weekends. I'm tired of missing out, of seeing everyone have fun at conventions. I'm tired of being too poor, too tired to do things. And most of all I'm tired of hearing how I've been missed. The line between missed and missed out is thin, and it just hurts to hear over and over how I'm loved and appreciated and oh how good it would be if I was someplace else. Isn't that just the poison?
I hate 4th weekend. I hate the loud, obnoxious music and yelling and the constant smell of smoke and random bangs and crashes. I hate the whining about wanting to sit by a fire next to the lake. I don't understand the appeal of just looking at a lake - it's boring, and mosquito-y. Fire smoke gives me migraines, and panic attacks and nightmares. It clings to my clothes so terribly that they have to go directly into the wash, so I couldn't wear anything that I might want to wear again soon. Maybe if things had been handled differently I wouldn't have this problem, but maybe not. I don't know.