Im sitting here again, laptop on my knees, lights off, just me and my hand. and i don’t even know why anymore. it’s not fun. never was. maybe it’s relief for like thirty seconds, but then there’s just this… emptiness. like i’m trying to scratch some itch in my brain that doesn’t exist.
and the worst part? i keep doing it. All day. like a routine. like my hand knows me better than anyone else does. better than me. maybe that’s funny. maybe that’s sad. maybe it’s both. it’s pathetic. i can feel it in my chest. like something heavy, rotting, curling in there, and i’m just pretending it’s okay because the screen is bright and the room is dark.
sometimes i laugh. sometimes i cry. sometimes i do both at the same time and it tastes like poison. and yeah, i know it’s just me. alone. always me. You think it’s casual, like we’re all the same, but we're not.
anyway. just thought i’d share. maybe someone else is staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. too, thinking about how much of a joke this all is.
and the worst part? i keep doing it. All day. like a routine. like my hand knows me better than anyone else does. better than me. maybe that’s funny. maybe that’s sad. maybe it’s both. it’s pathetic. i can feel it in my chest. like something heavy, rotting, curling in there, and i’m just pretending it’s okay because the screen is bright and the room is dark.
sometimes i laugh. sometimes i cry. sometimes i do both at the same time and it tastes like poison. and yeah, i know it’s just me. alone. always me. You think it’s casual, like we’re all the same, but we're not.
anyway. just thought i’d share. maybe someone else is staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. too, thinking about how much of a joke this all is.
