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I want the dead to be dead, forever, and I want to be one of them.

February 13, 2011

There’s something I should be doing, but I can’t quite remember what it is. I’m trading war stories with the walking wounded, hearing my name at the most inopportune moments. It’s cold. Of course it is. Winter’s meant to make you doubt your ability to make it to the end. I’m just trying to see it through, to welcome spring with as little extra baggage as I can. I don’t want to be anyone’s friend right now. This means answering calls, emails, telling you news. I’m subsisting on soup and tea and wearing the same jeans day in and day out. Who cares enough to notice? I can’t be bothered to. I just want to grow my hair long and regain some color in my face. I’m not talking as much as I used to. It’s a blessing, it’s a comfort. No silences to fill. I’m thinking so much. Into and out of the old familiar places.

I don’t name names. But I’m fond of plotting points on a map. Running my hands up and down new topographies. I won’t say the words, I’ll just mention scars, freckles, birthmarks. Know where things are when the layers come off. So your name is safe, whatever that means. But who else could I possibly be describing in such excruciating detail? Don’t worry. I keep your secrets, whether I want to or not.

I’m starving and I’m eating but nothing’s staying down. I don’t know how to keep myself sound in winter. “Cracks in the canvas” and the cold is pouring in. Years are collapsing in on each other and I’m forgetting which heartbreak and disappointment is the one I’m dealing with now. The truth is, I walk alone. I’m used to it. I’m more in love with my own solitude than I ever thought I would be. I’m reactionary like that. If I can’t beat it, I embrace it, make it my own. I look my demons right in the eyes, hold hands with them.

One more year of this and let’s see where it takes me.

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