Vapor

This one time, I was in love.

But he drank until his mind turned into a vapor and his thoughts stained everything, vicious and putrid, until he was wondering one thing after the next out loud and inside and all I had to talk to were the memories of his feelings soaked into the walls.

 

But he smiled so big his face hardly held his lips, his teeth, his laugh. He sang songs to me, sometimes with those very vapors and sometimes drenched in THC and secrets and all the world constantly watching him, to him. He lived in his head and every now and then he placated me with a word or a sound or a caricature of affection that was so diluted I had to wonder if he learned it from a show.

 

But he kept wandering in his mind and with his feet and with his attitude and with his intentions and nothing was ever the same as it was the day before. And I always felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff that would smash me into thin ice if I fell. And I always felt like some type of backup or a default just in case he never found anyone else to deal with all that vapor, just in case he was as odd as he thought.

 

This one time, I was in love and it felt like slipping constantly behind mirror after mirror after mirror and hearing him talk and laugh and scream to himself but losing sight of him more and more. By the end I was the only one left and I was the only one I could see and I still can’t really see around myself. Not really.

 

But I don’t leak vapor and I don’t find myself sinking into the floor and sometimes I’m okay with being the only one I can love as much as I love my sons. Sometimes I look down and I’m okay with my feet being bolted to the ground, with my heart staying intact in one place and not knowing how to dislodge it, how to give it, how to share it.

 

This one time, I was in love and I decided it was okay to let that die and let me live.

Atlanta pt. 0

So. We’re moving back to Atlanta.

 

I gave it some deep thought. I want the people who make my life miserable, consistently, to stay out of my life. But I can do that with less isolation.

 

It’s too early. My farmhouse in the woods on top of a mountain will be waiting for me someday. For now, I’ll exist. And I’ll find new people to talk to that don’t make my stomach churn. I’ll reconnect with friends I adored and permanently get rid of anyone else.

 

I’ve learned to keep people I once blocked on my block list. To not give boring men an audience. I may have lost some of my greater social skills but I’ve gained the motivation to write again, the ability to see where my problems are, and clarity. I gained a bit of peace here.

 

Alabama has done well for me. And now we make the plans to go back to the hell that is Atlanta. But maybe this time it won’t be a hell.

 

Maybe this time I will pay more attention to being well than I do to fitting into some puzzle I can’t figure out.

 

 

Small

I have a very small audience. Super small. Miniscule, even.

Part of me wants to grow this audience to benefit my future writing career. A bigger part of me, though, wants to just write what I feel and ignore the growth potential. This is a huge part of my life that seems to cover every area.

Wanting to just keep everything to myself.

I have a very small group of friends/people that I talk to, and that group gets smaller every day.

Part of me wants to grow it, to branch out, to talk to people. But a bigger part of me wants to stick to myself and these two Booger Butts and call it a day. I’ve been dealing with my want for social broadening lately and decided, eh, let’s try it? What a mistake.

… … …

This will jump around a bit but I’m only ever talking to myself, so who cares?

I had a daydream that I saved Urijah from someone trying to kill him and ended up in jail. In solitary confinement. Stuck to myself all day and night and only ever having communication when it comes to getting my food, if even then. And for some reason this was such a great daydream. I felt a calm about it. Sitting in some dirty room with nothing and no one until I just petered out of existence. With nothing but my brain and maybe, if I was lucky at all, paper and pen. Even if I wasn’t that lucky, the thought of being alone forever seemed grand.

The fact that this excites me is a problem, I think, but I wonder if I’m fighting the wrong way. Maybe I should just embrace that. Not let myself get pulled back in by artificial nice guys and lesbians who are already in love with someone else. Maybe I should keep moving forward and stop looking back, and maybe forward leads me and the young sir somewhere lonesome. Somewhere that is just us, except when it’s just us and The Boy Chin Wonder.

… … …

I won’t delete my social accounts again, even though I wanted to. I came close today. But I’ll try my best to stay off of them and in my own world. I’ll fight for my family, for us. I’m so sick of everyone – liberals and conservatives and everyone else. Adults and teens and anti-this and religion and just everything that exists outside of my home. I am sick of arguing and hearing arguments.

To be perfectly honest, I’d rather get a shotgun and a secluded house and argue with gunshots at this point. I’m tired of no one getting ANYTHING. And I think I’ll live in the philosophy that you don’t have to get anything. I can definitely GIVE you these hands/these bullets/this pain, though.

We can share.

Before I die I will figure out how to distance myself and still survive. I can’t imagine keeping in touch with people anymore. I’m done with it.

 

Let us depart.