I used to lose myself. I lost myself in the street, I lost myself in the hands of strangers. I lost myself at home, and I lost myself in the confines of my darkest and lightest dreams. Whether I'm dreaming of the world or a blank canvas, I lost myself. There were black shapes and white shapes and these images left me feeling hollow… but then there is Finley. He reminds me of things I would otherwise forget. He reminds me that I still hold the ability to feel things, to feel pain, to scream and to rot. In my dreams I live forever. That’s the only flaw.
It still happens sometimes. I can feel myself slowly losing grip on reality. It happens with the drugs. It happens with the sex. It happens at times like this. Truth is, I’m not a good person. I’m probably one of the worst. I think a lot of bad things about a lot of good people and I’m afraid these thoughts might be made a reality. I don't want to be bad.
Tomorrow is a Tuesday. I’ll spend the day with friends and then it will be Wednesday and that means I have therapy. I will look John in the eye and say, “I’m struggling.” I will be real. I’ll start telling him more and more about the important things I’ve never been able to say. I’ll tell him about how it started. I’ll tell him about the first time. I’ll tell him about the last time. I’ll tell him about the times in between. I’ll tell him about how those calloused hands would linger for too long, though I never paid any mind to what it might have meant. I hardly remember what he looks like these days. Now he’s just a faceless man who haunts my sleep and haunts my wake.
You can't run forever.
You can't hide... so don't bother trying. I learned that the hard way.
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