Annar in the Inbetweens

It is a silly feeling, you know— when I get like this. This.
Let me show you

while I am sitting on my bed, and the ceiling paint from the wooden planks is peeling and landing on my black dress, breaking apart on top of my torn tights; the room is falling apart while I’m still here.

We have rent, we have clothes to wash, things to read, things to write, music to listen to and review and write about— an entire city outside of our bedroom window; but all we can hear is the neighbors screaming things like “stupid bitch, turn the car off—” and uncertain things like “I never loved you anyway”.

No one is going to come into my room and peel me off my red, red sheets. No one is going to put the pen in my hand, the words in my mouth, the song in my mind. My opinions must be created by my Self; I must expose my heart and mind to the reality I spend so much time studying. No one’s going to love me for laying here, no one is going to admire me for dwelling and panicking. Even if I do beautiful things and create beautiful art, and write beautiful articles and play beautiful music, there is no guarantee anyone will care. That is the sick truth— no one is waiting for me anywhere, and when someone is waiting for me— I can’t do it— I can’t live my life with people loving me and watching me. Anyway, it’s a strange feeling that overcomes you when it begins to feel like everyone in your life is in the way of the good that stems from indulging in your own creativity. I’m hoarding newspapers and literature for a reason; I haven’t touched my horn in two months, because I don’t think you understand what it is like to want something to terribly, and what it feels like when you get it; I like to suffer, I like to starve, I like to deprive myself of food and sleep and music— the way we  live is an art. It’s really frustrating when you catch yourself out of absolute control— walking aimlessly towards a bar or a cafe or a classroom feeling like you have to be there.

Whether you are aware of it or not, you’ve chosen the place you are sitting in, you’ve chosen the emotion you are dwelling in— you are the cultivator of your perspective.