Old Writing resurrected

I wrote this in 2005.

***

I am in one of those strange, unexplainable moods. The kind of mood where I know I want something, but don't know what it is. The kind of mood where I want absolutely nothing, but feel so restless it's as if my bones are trying to jump out of my skin of their own accord. I want to throw myself on the floor and pound my fists on the carpet and wail and scream and cry and claw your eyes out.

This is the kind of mood where you and he overlap and I can barely tell you apart. Should I run? I ran last time. Ran and ran and ran; for 7 long years I've been running. He's still there though; I can't get away from him. Who knew he could run faster than me?

The kind of mood where I look at our relationship from behind the sights of a loaded gun, and I'm not afraid to use it.

If I still smoked my apartment would be littered with empty cigarette packs. At least I can have the whiskey. I haven't denied myself that pleasure yet. And why have I done this, denied myself the pleasure of smoking? I know I had great reasons, but right now I can't remember them.

This is the kind of mood that dictates I do not speak unless spoken to, and then only in monosyllables. This baffles you for some reason. Don't you understand that sometimes I just need to be quiet? Don't you ever want to just be in your own head for awhile? The only person I want to talk to is that person who communicates through my speakers, crooning and stroking with a voice dripping with honeyed sex and doe-eyed sadness.

This is the kind of mood where I could stand in front of the mirror and examine my eyes for hours. They are green and brown and gold and squinting against the light from the too-warm heat lamp.

My mind is filled with racecar beds and exploding animals and sticky fingers and penguins and why won't she see reason and how can I make him love me and visions of terrified faces in the mirror. Mine. Mine. Mine. Houses and rings and scuba diving and macabre corpses dressed in wedding finery and bodies clutching and writhing and moaning and bank statements and divorce papers.


And no one will understand this but you.