Locked up inside my room
, the curtains block out most of the sunlight. Still, some seeps through now and then, casting unusual colors
on my pale skin. A mountain has begun to develop - on my floor, my desk, my bookshelves - of half empty Coke
cans, some Mountain Dew, laundry that should have been done weeks ago, crushed pizza boxes, hardened candle wax
, and miscellaneous pieces of paper
torn from a notebook. A clutter of CDs out of their cases are stacked here and there, but none see any use but those that sing of sorrow and regrets, love found and lost
, meaninglessness and pity.
The phone rings now and then but I don't pick it up. It's a wrong number
, anyway. Or so I convince myself, checking my email but knowing I won't reply. Back to my notebook, I write words that have been written before
, the same words, the same feelings, over and over.
I almost break the mirror
with the force of my punch, but I couldn't even follow that through. The streaks on my cheeks from tears and dirt, I look down and my hands tremble. Hair unwashed and hanging over my shoulders, wondering why I don't even have the energy to kill myself
. It's these days that time mingles together and all is lost. Days, weeks, months pass without notice, the same monotony day after day.
A dent forms on the wooden door as I throw a heavy book towards it. I don't care
. All my books find their way against the wall, loud thugs and thunk
s. It feels so good sometimes to destroy. So good and pure and raw.
I will not spend my life like this.
I yank the curtains down, tearing them and I'm almost blinded by the glaring sunlight. They sting my eyes and cheeks and I stumble over the crap on my floor
, falling onto my ass. A cold chill leaves my skin and I laugh aloud, jumping up to kiss the dirty glass
of my window. As I look out, the world looks the same and nothing has changed, but everything is somehow brighter and fresh.