November 22 2.12AM (we like the numbers).
There’s a death toll rising in Gaza. and I don’t care because I am not a good person. Weekly protests over genocides, kids protesting climate change. It’s all too much, I’m burnt out from over-caring, truthfully, about myself. Insomnia‘s kiss won’t let Spotify’s gentle rain lull me into a tropical, chubby slumber. It is the only trick up my disjointed sleep’s sleeve. In my dreams, the universe provides answers.
I read “when i think of the men I’ve been with, every one of them stood between me and my writing” in a female poet’s interview and I thought, yeah but it’s in the reprieve when we produce work my love so take it as maybe love is the distraction and heartbreak the inspiration. At least there is a driver.
I’m embarrassed by the same failures. I wonder if God hates me. Not because I think I have it tougher than orphans buried under rubble. But because I am perpetually unsatisfied and complaining. And he’s like SJ, can you sort it out? I’m busy. No, I can’t. I absolutely am incapable of sorting it out.
Lack of trying, love bruises, scar tissue, rage and “you never do what you fucking say” – the play plays out itself with always the same scenes. How can you do that to someone you love? Have you thought that maybe it wasn’t about you? I know it wasn’t nice but it wasn’t about you. And nothing rarely is, which is why relationships are compromising until the unhappiest person breaks first. And now, my favourite part. Metering out the blame. Mmm, skip that, because you know what. Call it when it’s done. “Pep talks to myself”, this is what I will title my first novel.
My heart hurts in a way that is displaced and divorced from my brain machine. All loss is inherently sad right? All gain is not inherently happy. My new pants, 2 sizes larger than my skinny weight pray tell of this fact. My mantra “it’s all going to be ok”. Please fucking stop torturing me.
Just so you know where i’m at. It’s 2.45am again and I can’t sleep. I thought it was the tea before bed, an accident that absent mindedly dunked regular caffeine and not decaf tea into a steaming cup. It wasn’t. It’s just my new vibe. I don’t sleep and I don’t eat. It must be heartbreak. It’s heartbreak but it’s the right thing. Call it when it’s done. Call it when it’s done. Call. It. When. It’s. Done.
I’m allowed to return after six months and bemoan myself. I will write something better when it’s not 3am and I’m lonely and not out of practice and I’ve read something outside myself. For now, this is me where I am. And I refuse an elegant edit. My God, I need to burn my novel.
Forever and only,