My head is heavy.
And there is fog.
A dark, whispering fog that’s wrapping its cold fingers around me.
My eyelids feel like big, red curtains lowered after a performance.
Just gotta step back and breathe for a second.
Nothing by the steady rhythm of filling and emptying my lungs.
Just me and my breathing.
The world is far away.
I am fucking mentally done and it’s only Monday.
Fuck you, you person I won’t name and you won’t care because you are ultimately not even part of my life and why am I letting you get to me it’s just work and I leave in 22 minutes and can forget about you until tomorrow when things will get resolved and I will have been all worked up for no reason.
Okay. I’m better.
Life is a gallery of photographs.
Each moment is a frame.
Why, in any of these frames, would you want something you aren’t passionately and proudly enamored of?
Sometimes I like to feel dirty and ugly and not give a fuck about it whatsoever.