Hey. Been a while.
I usually find that I come to write on this site and read the stories when I’m really low, but every time I go to write, I have nothing good to offer.
I’m sick of my mind.
It’s always the human interaction that lets me down. I met an old friend the other night; we both were drunk and ended up holding each other; the memory of it is killing me. I’m not so foolish to say I’m in love with her, I’d like to think I’m above that type of teenage bullshit; maybe I just love the idea of her, or someone. All I can think of is her skin, the way she put my hand on her cheek and rested her head on my shoulder. I think of the blood running beneath her skin, the way the warmth travels through her. I think of the layers of connective tissue composed of keratin and cells, and I know truly in my soul that I will never amount to any single one of the billions of molecules that hold the shape of her.
And so how could it for anyone else? How could I possibly exist in someone else’s life when I am the lowest of the low, depriving the existence of someone or something better?
Like I said: I am sick of my mind.