Inner Monologue

It's been overdue too long. You gotta change the sheets and vacuum below the bed. There's probably nasty things living under there.

Take out the vacuum. Brace yourself for the inner monologue that accompanies you when ever you try to clean something. Emphasis on trying. You hate cleaning anything, because it kinda feels like you can't actually get to the point of cleanliness you want to. Just take it step by step, you got this. Change the vacuums bag. Plug the fucking thing in. Put it on. Wroom. Cat doesn't like it, neither do you.

Vacuuming the dust, shit theres so much of it, ugh. You really are a slob. Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Brain does just the thing you don't want it to do. Fine. You meticulously work your way around the small spaces, shit gets cleaned, at least a bit. Don't think about the other stuff you need to do.

Eyeing the bed in disgust. Strip the old sheets and be even more disgusted, you've slept in this. Feel worthless. New sheets look nice. Cotton-satin, you love the feel, even if you feel like garbage. Why do you always do this? Try to slouch behind the bed, even if it's too small a space - you have to get the dust there. Wroooooom, says the vacuum.

Mind slips into the past like you're trying to run on ice. Shit, not this again. Everything is blue and you're not even sure if the light was blue. Your mind just sees the colour. It's the moment when you broke, even if it doesn't show in any way now. Or does it? It probably does. You don't want to think about this. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Please, just don't. The whole room is still blue. Keep vacuuming, keep doing your stuff, even with the invasion in your brain.

Pushing the bed back to it's position. Put rest of the sheets in their respectable counterparts. Fucking christ on a bike, why is it so hard to get the blankets in the sheets. Feels like you can't accomplish anything. Trying to clean, feel like garbage. Way to go, brain. Thank you. Please, come again. Room's not blue anymore but you keep thinking still about it. You weren't even beat. It could have been so much worse. You could have been killed. No scratch that, if you would be dead you wouldn't have to try to deal with stupid brains that are wired wrong. It always comes down to this, even when you don't really want that. Wouldn't it be so easy? Would it? Mind is like a black sludge, going down the drain. Like your life. You're nothing. You fuck everything up. Don't think like that, thats stupid. You can write. You can sing. You can draw. You can do alot, but still.. It's.Not.Working. Looking up at the bed. Looks inviting. At least, when you sleep, you usually don't think about things. Shit, that's not true, you see dreams so much. Besides, there's still stuff to do, even if it's not important. Not much you do is important.

You're shivering. Cleaning is shit and thinking is even more fucked up. And feeling. Yeah, that's even worse. You had 4 good years not feeling much and now it's back with a fucking vengeance. What are you even supposed to do with these? Feelings. The pills are not working for that anymore. Not for anything much, for that matter. Maybe you should try to ask for something different. Would it even make a difference. Probably not. You're supposed to be an intelligent person - you should know better than to wish that feelings could be dulled or killed completely. You should know that if you swipe them under the rugg, they're just gonna fester. Infect everything. You've done that already many times and now you are stuck with the aftermath. It's not pretty.

Try to breathe, feels like you're covered in the dust you tried to vacuum up. Cat looks pleased that the damnable thing is turned off. Take a breather - grab a cig. Looking down at the street you light the unhealthy thing. You shouldn't be doing this, but you can't help it, somehow it just relaxes you a bit. There are parkinginspectors walking up to the nearest car. They look like they are gonna put on a ticket. Poor bastard, whoever owns the car. Old ganny tries to hurry to the car, explaining. You wish she wont get the ticket. The inspectors have mercy on her. Can't help but wish someone would have mercy on you too. Still happy for her. Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Wonder why brains are so complicated, why things are complicated. You don't feel very safe. Shit there's so much to do and you want none of it. Brains are still going haywire with the shit thoughts and shit feelings. It really shouldn't be this hard. Kinda happy they are not bursting out. You don't want to cry. Keep a straight face, even if your alone. Cat brushes his head in your hand. Pet. Pet.

Should eat something. Don't want to. Need to, and you always cave in at some point. Mind weighs like a brick house made of lead. Don't think about it. Don't think about. Heart weighs like it's made of lead and it's the size of a fucking black hole. Don't think about it.
Write about it.