Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

08 March, 2008

I was trying to clean my upstairs. Get my clothes organized. Throw out things I haven't worn since I was a crazed cultist. And I just stopped right in the middle of it and now my upstairs is a fucking wreck. He left so many things behind. Some of them are too heavy for me to lift or move. He's been gone like two months and I still haven't thrown out the random things he left. Why was it so fucking easy to leave me? Why didn't I merit a "hey, let's talk about some stuff?" Why can't I find a way to deal with all the things that have me poisoned and unable to physically function like a normal person? Are there people who are happy and like living? Or is it that everyone is pretending and I'm just not good at that anymore?

This is all there is. There's nothing else for me. There are just days and days and nothing worth filling all those hours where I'm not working.


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