What if distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder? Maybe I’m imagining things again, which you know is deadly for one’s perception of reality.
I’ll be sleeping on a mattress cover tonight with no blanket with my head resting on a discoloured pillow formerly soaked with sweat reminiscent of my worst nightmares. I donated my last pillowcase and blanket, even my pyjamas. I’ll be sleeping in my clothes and a leather jacket.
Has this room been any emptier? I don’t really know; I feel no different.
I can’t remember if I was crying in my sleep; I don’t think so. I must’ve been sweating or salivating.
I feel nothing, yet.
This place has started to define me. My search for the independent self was quite successful until…
I can’t stop listening to the West of Memphis soundtrack. I’m still looking for answers, trying to unveil secrets and ensuring myself that everything that happened wasn’t my fault. Yet it was meant to be.
The only area where I did fuck up was by not being myself. Sure, I’m not the best at communicating…but I know that I’m a good person.
Still, I don’t know what kind of “good” people see in me. In the end, it has only driven me towards sadness.
Perhaps shortsighted people are more appreciative of what they have. They see good right in front of them. I’m only good at observing what’s far away.
New Cross, Wapping, Greenwich and Southbank – you have half of my heart, not more. I will you, Southeast London.
I did not fuck up one bit.