It’s 12:01 am. The sweat on my neck causes my hair to stick to the back of my neck. I’m lying in bed. I’m lying to myself. I tell myself that I’m ok. That things will get better. Just give it time. But how much Time? Time is a valuable thing to me. I only have so much of it.
It’s now 12:05 am. I wasted 4 precious minutes typing. 4 minutes ill never get back…
Now it’s 12:10. I’ve been writing for 9 minutes. And yet I feel no better. As a writer shouldn’t this make me happy? If not, at least a tad bit happier than I am now? A tad bit happier than fighting the urge to put metal to skin? Happier than sitting in the dark, typing aimlessly, as my wrists and thighs burn with yearning?
And yet I feel no such reward from these 12 minutes wasted, writing. All I feel is an all-consuming sadness.
Sadness at the fact that I have lost 14 precious minutes on the ticking clock.
Sadness that I know the reader doesn’t care.
Sadness that I am now saddened by something that once brought me joy.
Sadness in everything.
So now I shall sit in the dark. Feeling the clock within myself slowly run out of time…
Things unsaid, feelings unfelt, actions undone, life unexperienced…
More precious minutes lost….tick tock, tick tock.