Scribbles

I stop, just as I opened the door to my home. I stop to look at the cracks on the walls, Like the gnarly veins of some geriatric hand. They a mere sign of age, of foreboding, some harbinger of ultimate failure. I smile and jar the door open. My home makes light of its name, There is no smell of baking bread, no fire place, No patter of claws along wooden floorboards. It is a room, my single bed lengths the right wall. Theres some other small items that sit in the remaining space, secondhand table and chains, a horrid couch spatters with paint, scars from its former life. Its wednesday, one of the wednesdays in late november.

The 10 months I’ve spent within these walls have been soft. Nothing stands out, nothing breaks the line. All smooth. I am in my mid twenties but feel older, ‘life lasts longer when filled with periods of boredom and discomfort’ 25 feels long for some reason. I drink on wednesdays. I spend some hours in the shop and after work I return and drink. Mostly alone, some times with company. Both feel uncomfortable at times.

I have emotional problems, according to a therapist. I might, something is wrong, I’m certain of that. I try to reflect on my actions and feeling and it resolves nothing. I drift from perspective to irrational actively, It seems to operate in a cyclical fashion. It gets worse and it gets better and after a while it gets worse again. I think of death. It sits as an unlocked door in my head, I toyed passively for years with it. Ive pushed at it. Not hard enough though. Some thing holds it, maybe.