s0ulman (s0ulman) wrote,

  • Music:

Invitation to the Blues

Standing outside of a 7/11 at night in your second best shirt, smoking shitty cigarettes. An old, familiar feeling.

The worst part about being a dreamer is having to wake up from the dream. It's like having nightmares in reverse: instead of jumping out of a horror movie set to the familiar, comforting confines of your own bedroom, you find yourself forced out of a place where you felt good and safe, and made to face the bleak unfairness of the real world. Boo-fucking-hoo.

Just a few days ago I remember thinking of the only thing that I miss about being a stupid teenager. The ability to embrace the desperation. To throw a tantrum. To get off on watching your made-up world going to shit; not because it feels good - it sure as hell doesn't - but because the feeling is just so strong. It's the strongest thing there is. Not love, not lust, not pain or fear - it's despair. Once you've felt it, everything else is just an echo of the real emotion. At least that's how it works for me.

I don't really do despair anymore. Not my kind of party. I do disappointment, disillusionment, regret, occasional anger. Despair is left behind in the good old days, when I could wallow in it for weeks, hitting an all-time low time after time in an act of exquisite emotional masturbation only available to those of melancholic persuasion, such as yours truly. But now, I do the apparently grown-up thing. I pull out the practiced bravado. I smile. I jest. I shrug my shoulders. I loosen the tie, then lose it completely. I stand outside a 7/11, chain-smoking half a pack of cigarettes with the best poker face in my life. I want the despair to come back, like a lover I never truly got to say goodbye to. But it never does. I can fake it, but in the morning it just turns into a fucking pumpkin, and instead of feeling desperate, I feel embarrassed.

Another worst part about being a dreamer is that those dreams are never completely gone. They still exist there somewhere, out of sight but not out of mind, like disenfranchised junkies down the backstairs of your conscience. Like a torn page in a book that you'll never get to read.

Like the clinging smell of shitty cigarettes on your second best shirt.

I guess, at least there will always be something to remember them by.
Tags: nightly disease
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