It's winter and it's cold and there isn't very much light. I was thinking about how I don't feel right. How I want the sun and I want to walk outside in the grass. I want there to be light on my face, in the morning. I feel a million miles away from living.
I get anxious in the evenings, just before Kurt gets home. Like, I almost make it, but not quite. Like the hour between 4 and 5 is darkening too quickly.
I was thinking that it's probably okay.
It's probably okay that I don't feel the same in the winter. Everything is gone; all the trees are bare. All the city colors are covered over in salt. I can't walk very far. I'm intolerant of wind. My lips crack and bleed.
Why wouldn't I feel it in my bones when the sun goes down without ever having been here? Why do I try to internalize these feelings and say, "Something is wrong with me?" Something is wrong with the world. There is nowhere to bury my head, everything is hard and frozen over. The birds are all gone but the crows. They remember things. If you steal from them, they remember your face.
I'm lost deep in things. I have imaginary friends, only they aren't imaginary. I have relationships with them in my head. Sometimes they get stuck and I get stuck and I can't come back into the world until I've lived them. That's called story telling and I rant to Kurt at night on the couch. I want to be something. I want to eat all the words I read and make myself out of them. I just want this. I want to die, halfway between moss and the moon.
I want the stars to know my face. I want to steal from the crows. It's winter and that's probably okay.
I'm proud of myself for this, for the hours behind my eyes, for the late nights and tears in the evening. I used to not know who I was. I used to think I knew everything.