I need a break.

To do something that feels like growing.

Creating something.

Writing is often better than talking. At least for me. I can talk to myself through others there. The characters that come out from the fog. They have something to say.

Day in and day out I talk to walls. Stiff apparitions asking for liquid amongst the plaster in their mouths. The cement builds up. What nourishment is there! Where the water only soothes the symptom.

The shallows have provoked a destructive sense of vulnerability where the cat chases its tail. I fight by turning off my filter; like I’m combating monotony with daring statements of defiance.

But it’s just bad jokes,

erratic gesticulations,

and stories that were better left buried.

Mean and dark to be kicked out of where I cannot leave.

Great, I’m pleading with something that’s not there again. To be unconditionally understood. Where does the man go when dad dies?

Mouths staring back at me with their eyes.