Like Magellan, I thought I had found a home. It turned out to be a different piece of land. I traded in my busy bed, a quiet house in the country, for stability. Concrete-like and solid. The trade was ill advised, I know this now.
I spent the last week in a humming room killing myself. Not The Suicide Life -- don't misunderstand me. Not a bloody, haunting symbolism with bathtubs and an empty pill bottle. But a reworking of life in its current state.
The get-up has never been washed, never hung outside to dry. But what was underneath was not the problem. The past self had it all right, with walls of beautiful minds and watching the sun rise during the dead time of the year.
Why can't we be like we were? I was thinner then, had more hair then. The funds were lower, but I didn't come so quickly. A complete lack of care. Even the nights spent staring at the tiger painting, weeping into my seven and soda.
We should all kill ourselves more often. 'Cos it's not about death, baby. I'm not about that scene. It's all about the violent change now, the kind that guts houses and car interiors and closets and empty chests.
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