Halfway through the month and I realise how much I despise November. November. I devoted my moustache to your demand. A demand unreciprocated, unappreciated. Same time last year, I considered my life forfeit, grasping straws, breathing rubble, hoping for a glimpse, an answer, mercy. And just now thoughts of her still linger by.
First year. How many years more to endure? It's all blank since then, embalmed back into irrelevance. No sincere happiness. Shallowest smiles swing some sunny Sunday. Sunny Sunday. Followed by a year of Holiday. The gloomiest of Sundays.
I can breathe. Waking up is improving by a nanometre. Fry trivia drive my day, source of smile, endless. Dirty as fuck, unkempt, with a whiff of unglamorous scent. Ass stuck to bed. The thought of separating from this cramp shithole of a bedroom makes my skin crawl in panic, head asplodes, joy turned to ashes. The outside world reminds me of a certain person. My mind screams AVOID. Everything in it reminds me of that. Wishes and stitches and burns. Moving on through inaction. Forgetful, distraction.
Allowing myself to escape this routine will be hard, and it is, not what I wanted, but what is needed.