My Dear Disco

A jumble of thoughts in my head, unidentifiable emotions swirling around like angry bees through my insides. I stand, sit, pace, trying to let them sink to their respective pockets, or storm out of me and at least make sense. I trip in limbo and wait for the days to pass. Today I left the office early; five hours later I'm still waiting to resume my work day.

I suspect I paint a much prettier picture of my past than how it really looked. As though there was a time when I could properly feel things, instead of wading around in this thick soup of ignorance, that I could put words to them and know them and live them. This heart beats so heavy, how does all the blood sink to my knees? I had a home once, filled with things that were mine, I had invoices with my name on them and keys and routines. It seems so pretty in retrospect; the truth is, when I think of it now, does it not make me a little queasy?

There was a point a few weeks ago, when I stood at the edge of having no place to go, and I seriously considered a park bench in a quiet nook south of Hornsgatan. I remember standing there, looking at it, and thinking, wouldn't it be a relief to just give in, lie down, be free. The nights were still warm then, the world still kind. The days are an incessant toss between two extremes of longing. The soup thickens, my heart grows numb.

I think I miss clarity, most of all.