just words

Sometimes it is easier when there is nothing expected. No guide lines, no rules, just sitting down and writing again, truly writing. The reason I fell in love with writing is simple, it was mine, completely and utterly mine. My words never abandon me. I cover them often, making it hard to find them, yet they are always within, buried beneath unsightly layers of scar tissue but within. I find myself falling weakly back into them regularly, trying frantically to regain strength and find some sort of self-awareness. I dig past all my demons and regurgitate some inner part of me. A meager grasp of inner knowledge, no matter how ugly, is required.

 I need to know that I am stronger then what I am faced with. That if he leaves me I’ll be ok. I need to know I won’t melt down this time, but every time I start to dig, every time I look within, I begin to feel the weight of emotions heaping themselves on top of me, until I am buried alive within them. I’m alone, and there is no reason for it, yet I’m not sure I could ever have it any other way. I’ve come to love being alone, I just am not sure how much the being lonely I like. It doesn’t happen very often, that sinking lonely feeling, mostly at night, when I’m cold and have had a long day, and there is no one left to talk to. I write, and that sometimes helps. I have homework to do yet I can’t bear to do it. All I want to do is sleep, yet that flees me. I feel like getting drunk, so I wont allow it. I am at the edge, on the verge of having a breakdown or rebuilding myself. I will become stronger with this, there is no other option.