AM worthless

The mornings, they evade, as if to remind that you do not deserve the aroma of coffee, that morning stretch in fresh sunlight, those moments of listening to the world rouse from restfulness into industry. That you deserve, instead, to wake up to regrets and the particular panic one gets from oddly lucid dreams of people who died in their sleep, or are you sweating just because the windows always opened to the east anyway. There are no breezes these days, after all, as progress is necessarily monolithic, pedantic, stoic.

It’s not as if the nights were worth it, though, tossing and turning and stewing twisted ideas in the unhygienic flashing of a light not meant for the dark, always having, in the end, to come to that, to force a false tranquility and melt the world away, alone,¬†instead of the shared split-second glimpse of nirvana it was meant to be.

like a tight hug, like trying to squeeze it all out

Three days overdue at this point, but writing comes harder these days.

Thank you, first of all.

It takes me a while to reply to all the birthday greetings because I like to make a ritual of it: trying to make every ‘thank you’ a little different than the others, just to show that I really, really appreciate the effort, Facebook-prompted or not (the Internet can be such an unfeeling place, after all). It also gives me a chance to–forgive my little ego trip here–just take time to breathe it all in, to bask in the warmth of it all, the general outpouring of love for someone who never feels he deserves any of it, yet needs it like any normal human would, and probably needs it more than ever these days.

It’s also taken me longer to reply than usual because these past few days have been a beautiful whirligig: a trip to the mountains, walking until legs and feet turn sore, drinking excessive amounts of coffee in between; meeting up with good friends over fruity beers, conversations about life and work and adulting and television circa 1990s to early 2000s, and even more coffee; and reading everything from untouched textbooks to board game reviews in between. Tiring yourself to sleep is different when it’s because you sincerely want to make the most of the dark and the quiet, trying to squeeze every second for what it’s worth, searching for color.

Somewhere in the middle of that hot mess, I turned a year older. But turning thirty only sounds significant because we’ve long since clung to to a decimal system of counting and conceptualizing anyway. The number of years starts to not matter when things just, despite appearances, contributed to a long, slow spiral downward.

At this point, I can’t even pinpoint when everything started becoming so… drab. When color only comes in short bursts, spontaneous as the unplanned moments, set up only at the last second just to trigger them. When stories and emotions do not come as freely as before, which may be the biggest of the tragedies thus far. I miss the old me.

Disjointed, I know. Like I said, writing comes harder these days. Losing vibrance tends to do that.

Like I have also said, countless times before–but with an even greater need and urgency than ever: I have to start making this–all of this: the writing, the stories, the colors–a habit again.