Monday, May 19, 2014
Hot House Something
I know it's an unbearably satisfied way to describe oneself, but I decided last night that I was some kind of hot house orchid that can only bloom in ideal conditions, and conditions are far from ideal at the moment. I'm having a hard time, I am in a bad way, I'm not my best self. It's all temporary, everything will pass. I'm reduced to euphemisms. My brain is broken and I need swathes of solitude to heal it up. I feel like a feeble variety, the way I need so much seclusion to function. I don't know why I'm posting this. I couldn't sleep because I kept dreaming of people needing to talk to me. This sounds like some kind of terrible joke, but I'm lost here. If you believe in auras, mine is crystal, which explains a thing or two. I'm so over stimulated I can't even read books, they are just one more voice pounding in my head. Many of you who come here are writers. I'll just assume you know what I mean. I want to take a tiny trailer to a windswept beach and be alone forever. Not all apocalyptic visions are nightmarish to me.