It seems the only time I find this space to be of any use to me is when I run out of real estate in my cramped skull. Oh, I'm sure there's more than enough space in there, but with all the clutter, the corridors I refuse to go down and so just board up, the blood clots that at this point it would be silly for me not to have, I mean, really, I barely have enough room to open the door much less put down all this anxiety! It's been months since I've seen the floor.
Either I'm sad, or in love, or heartbroken, or writing poorly. There is no in between. For here, at least. Because the in betweens don't inspire anything, the in betweens are forgotten. 365 days in a year and it would be silly to pretend they're all worth remembering. Even the good ones (or maybe especially the good ones). It fades from now to a while ago and now we're here, which was then, and it's exhausting keeping track. Imagine having to live without forgetting. I couldn't live like that, not that I'm living that well now and forgetting is my favorite hobby!
So where am I now? What's the point of this all? Sad, or manic, or happy, or in love, or heartbroken? Either way, the writing sucks, the punctuation is wrong, and there will be typos sprinkled like salt all over this because you know I don't bother to spell check.
I am in love.
Oh, boy, does that sound silly. Who am I announcing this to, and for what purpose? Maybe for myself, as a reminder, a note, a piece of proof to go back to for when (and if, and I hope not) this goes to shit. A testament to the State of Me Right Now. Because the days are good, too good, and I don't want to forget them, not this time damnit. I've lost enough of my own timeline. Maybe that's why I'm 21 but act like a child. I simply don't remember growing up but now I have to deal with the fear of premature wrinkles! If there's no space in my mind for the memories of these moments, I'll jot them down and keep them in the cloud. I'd rather get runs in all my stockings and tights or even run 10 miles, than run the risk of forgetting how happy I am at this moment.
Plot twist! Yes, happy! I am happy. I am a cup filled with foam and badly balanced on a tray and I am sloshing over the sides, just spilling over. My heart and my head are so full, but thankfully I keep my stomach out of that state often enough that my modeling career is going quite swell (more swollen than my own breasts, but don't get excited it's more like a shy B-cup of success).
For a long time, writing things down, how ever badly and error ridden, was a way to process the funny processes my mind goes through. But now there is someone who understands and I don't have to whine online and work through things all on my lonesome. Not that he takes the plow from my hands and does the tilling, rather it's just existing in that (this? my?) lonely world with me that's all I need. I'd say I'm not making sense, but when have I ever and also I'm giddy with happiness and love so buzz off. Partners aren't therapists, but goddamn does it feel good to kiss someone who understands the strange ticking and loopy, wonky thoughts that are part of me. And I try, boy, do I try, lips to mind telepathy to communicate what my clumsy tongue cannot. I love you, feel it, I love you, feel it.
And the idiot still likes me, despite having had several conversations with me. Despite seeing the skeletons in my closet and the spiderwebs behind my eyelids and the scars that form constellations on my wrists, he still looks at me and l-o-v-e pours out from his lips. The words are in the air and he can't take them back now (well, he could, but let's hope he won't).
Maybe I'm writing now, only to get back into the habit. Maybe to give myself some proof, some solid thing to hold to remember that this little blink in time here is happening, has happened. Maybe I just want to brag and say I have a wonderful boyfriend and I am in love. Either way, it's all typed out already and I might as well hit publish.