.Monday.

So here I sit on my living room couch with a fresh cup of coffee as my soul companion. It is almost July, the outside temperature reads seventy eight.  The steam fills the air with an aroma that I know will make me sick. I will spend the next hour between the toilet and my couch; at all times shaking like an addict going through withdrawals.

Heart pounding, nerves burning, eye twitching, breathing shallow.

I will sit here and thoroughly try to scrape the pulp out of every daunting thought so that when it’s over. When my physical sickness has ceased, my mental sickness can stop along with it. Then I can rest, lay prone on the floor and listen to the rain, or not listen to the rain. I could lie on the floor and know nothing of the outside world. I could focus on my body, my beating heart, my breath, my skin, every blood cell pumping through my arteries, through my veins, continuously working to keep me here. Just as much alive as I am dead, in limbo, on the floor, in a house that isn’t even mine.

 Back to the coffee, I drink it black and strong. I hate the taste; it’s hard not to pull a face when drinking around others.  I’ve always drank it black, my father drank it black. Maybe that’s why, some hidden symbolism , some yearning to be the embodiment of a real adult, or what I thought was one growing up. I am twenty one, five six and one hundred and fifteen pounds. That’s a lie; I’m probably more around one hundred and twenty, afraid to admit it to myself; to you.  I go for hikes, I get drunk with friends, and I have sex. I hate loud noises but love being loud. My world is made of contradictions and inconsistencies; no one knows where they are going, who they are, why they are here. No one I know at least, and yet, we are all here; spending thousands upon thousands of dollars in borrowed money that we can spend the rest of our lives working and paying back. Wasting away.

I am half way through my cup now, half way out of my mind. The blinds are slapping against the frame of my window, blowing in the wind.

  PET PEEVE: repetitive noises.

I am choosing to write this now, choosing to put it out there. Choosing to recollect, change, discover and build; because I need some fucking honesty! I need someone to be honest and if I can’t do that for myself, for you, then who’s going to do it. Who’s going to hand me a basket full of hand written diaries and say “Here you go, I’ve recorded your life. It’s perfect.”

 No One; it’s not. It never will be. This is my job, this is my turn at bat and I am taking it head on. I am ready with the wood grasped tightly in both hands, awaiting the ball. Awaiting the truth.