Quarter Life + Three
This solitude makes me a bit obsessed.
It’s been three days since I’ve actually done anything for work. Technically, I’ve been listening to music and daydreaming from sun up to sun down. It’s an odd stasis and I’m seriously stuck in it.
Also, lots and lots and LOTS of listening to porn.
Before about ten minutes ago I couldn’t even get up. My mind is completely content with existing inside itself. Seriously and completely content. Right now, Shaquana Amanda Briggs is just a vessel for Astrid Snow and Chaunce and all those merry characters in my head.
And then I realized why I’m back in my head again after getting out and living for so long:
This isn’t what I want.
It’s never been what I want.
And by ‘this’ I don’t mean Alabama. Bama’s pretty okay so far, actually. We’re unbothered. I guess the biggest problem is that I still don’t know what ‘this’ is, just that I am getting further and further away from it. Part of ‘this’ is probably unraveling because of my acceptance that I don’t want to be with anyone. I like being a single mom.
Maybe I would like friends? Some people who are like me, have kids, are rough as hell and not into living this normal life? I definitely think so. Some outcasts who aren’t part of the outcasted, who got lost along their way. I want to link up with some people like that and live a certain type of way. I miss my brother in that regard. I wonder who he is now and if he’s the answer.
I seriously wonder that.
There’s also this lust I have over a very certain type of person. See: GETTER. See: Danny (GG). See: Jontron. See: numerous others that are in gaming or music and are super talented or super lax.
Probably, the biggest problem is my lack of prospects in a number of areas. This has been the same for some time. I don’t enjoy many things – as it stands: daydreaming, some gaming, some writing, flowers, dark things, sexy things, the constant promise of death. Those things are okay. Other than that, I drown a bit. I don’t know what I want out of other people so companionship is a dead thing.
When I write stories, or even when I read them, there’s always a hue. A color. A tone. The people in stories and in real life are aligned on a certain path and then they deviate. The color changes when they change paths. My path is pretty much dirt and it is either a blend of too many colors or no color at all.
This isn’t really depression. Maybe I need to recuperate from the shit end of year stuff. But I am definitely missing something and it is definitely weighing heavy in me.
I feel more sudden changes coming soon.