When you have insomnia, everything’s far away, indeed - it’s just as nothing can touch you. Not the quetiapine, not the Rivotril. You awake, and know - this is the loneliest you’ll ever be. If there are gods, they are somewhere else.
You are all by yourself. You and the whole fucking mess you call life. Wires and papers and clothes everywhere - this is home, to you.
This is home.
So you get up stumbling, turn on the fucking 30 watt LED light, fuck the neighbours. Grind some coffee. Boil some water. Filter it up and sweet it up with a thousand spoons of sugar - fuck it all.
Light up a cigarrette, inhale, puff and smoke, this is home to you, boy. Boy?? A 40 year old boy, yes you are. You and oyur toys, your dragons, your myriad of broken electronics all around you, this is who you’ve turned to be at 40.
Less worth than the shirt you’re wearing.
And what are you going to do there? Nothing. Nothing at all. No drawings, no paintings, not musings on a book about the kinky romance about a wolf and a dragon.
You get up and go to work.
Work - a place where sometimes you ‘ll fell just as alone as up in the messed up attic. A place where you had the time of your life then had to let her go; it was not her place to be. Forbidden, forsaken.
But not forgotten.
No.
Never forgotten.
