unfinished short story
There was so much to be done. Yet I could only bring myself to yawn slowly and pace my stiff self towards the other end of the house.
She was gone.
To be expected. I had wanted nothing but truce for the past week, so this was an improvement to my distracted behavior. Still I sat down on the couch, perfumed with her scent as the rest of the house was, and lit myself a cigarette.
I knew this shit would get better soon. I'm an optimist, although my actions contradict this like nothing else. I'm not trying to cause myself misery. Misery just presents itself to me. I try too hard, and I am too nice. No, this isn't true. I don't try at all. And she is just too brash; it's like I'm trying to overcompensate.
I wish I could lock her in.
I wish I could have kept her, but had not dealt with her. She kills me. She drives me mad. I can't produce a single song; I can't write, I can't eat; I can barely touch her.
I can only hug her when she's deep asleep.
The sunlight poked in from every fret. All the blinds were down, my eyebrows just the same. This eternal malaise of being. I wish I could be different. I wish there was more harmony to our song. Yet here I am despaired; quietly insane. I've been insane for so many months now that I don't know what it's like to feel real. This house is a theatre. I'm a doll in a mind game.
She depresses me but brings these ultraviolet colours to my life. All at once. The true definition of a U2 song. So apologetic but infinetly ruthless. She has the darkest eyes I have ever seen.
I tried to bring myself to eat something, but instead I ended up drinking milk from the cartons again. I drink so much milk. It's the only thing that goes down well these days. Had I been keen to slow down on all the THC I might have felt like a steak, or eggs. But slowing down slows down my own internal processes. Slowing down brings me to an Earth that is so not appealing; to a routine of suits and suitcases and zebra faces crossing the footpath at seven.
I don't want to be like them, I don't wan to give in, and I know she understands but she can't live with this creative laziness either. She is a frail girl and she needs me to look after her in every way; in every sense. And I love her and it hurts. And by three o'clock there were several milk cartons surrounding my workspace, but I wasn't working.
There was no work to be done. There was no material. There was just a putrid smell of rage starting to build up. I fiddled with a pen for a bit and got the same sentence I had been jotting the whole week. The same verse, the same curse that haunted me day and night, the repetitive thought that my brain seemed to be trying to expel, explain, or exorcise:
ANGER CORRUPTS ME.