Monday, 23 January 2012
051; (There are no words.)
All I do is lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, at the walls, through the windows, watch the light change and disappear, until there is only darkness. A car or two would pass, some birds might sing, children cry, but all I hear is the dull thump of my heartbeat, reminding me that I am still alive. My eyes are swollen and my throat is rough, as if I had been crying, and though I feel like it, the tears never come. I drag myself out of bed once or twice, to drink some water, take some pills, nibble on some bread, go to the bathroom, and of course, to have a cigarette (or fifteen.) His words are ringing in my ears and I repeat everything over and over again in my head until I'm not really sure what was ever said. Breathing hurts. My body aches. When I stand, I feel as though I'll fall, and several times, I do. I have been awake for less than six hours and I think my head will explode if I stay awake any longer. I curl up underneath my blankets once again.
(Now it's 11:11 and I'm trying not to wish for you.)