I Have Random Thoughts Of Randomness
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wrote this poem(?) earlier today when I was feeling a lot of things. It is written stream-of consciousness style, so punctuation may be incorrect and it’s not in any sort of rhyme scheme (or at least I didn’t intend it to be.) I thought simply writing it down would be enough, but now I feel like sharing it might help. I honestly don’t even really expect any responses, but I hope someone can relate to this.
My room is a cacophony of ceiling fans blowing their highest. They will never chill the bones beneath this blubber. My sheets are sprinkle crumbs and twists of restless nights from not being able to breathe. The string from my tea bag bounces gently against my mug that reads “everyone deserves the chance to fly.” Wet tissues and garbage litter my little area, my space. Books I will never read, a laptop that sounds like Chewbacca, a humidifier who’s pulsing fluorescent red light keeps me awake in the middle of the night. Olaf is stuffed between the bed and the wall, getting a warm, uncomfy, hug. My feet are tangled in the sprinkle sheets but I can’t get warm. I don’t want to get warm. My nose feels like I’m breathing through tiny holes poked in a mesh box; my lungs are on fire and I was awake until five am unable to breathe, therefore unable to sleep. and I feel... lazy. But I’m sick. I have a cold. I’m an adult, that’s not an excuse. I haven’t showered. I have a shower schedule. Kind of. I can just rinse my body. But then what’s the point? I need to wash my hair in a couple days anyway, why not just wait? I’m tired. I haven’t showered in four days. Time for that later. I SHOULD be cloroxing my bathroom counter into the next century, vacuuming dog fur until the trash can overflows or the vacuum explodes, reading textbooks that I never read, rewriting a script I am convinced is finished but am worried will never be. I should be emailing, making my bed, putting cups in their rightful place. This is a daily struggle. I don’t want to move. Left alone, I’d die in my space. I am lazy. Lazy that I can’t seem to clean simple things, lazy that I can’t email one person. So I sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep for all the I don’t have a reason to be upset, but maybe if someone dies, I can use that excuse. Sleeping for the I dont want to deal with that right now. Sleeping for any minor inconvenience that I don’t feel like talking about. Sleeping for the fear that if I actually stay awake, my unproductive nature will never be enough. Sleeping because dreaming a bad dream is more exciting than reality. Sleeping because I’d rather rest aching bones than try my hardest and fail; thus I claim ignorance. Sleeping because I actually am, believe it or not, tired. I suck my finger and inhale the scent of a scrap of cloth that is essentially my baby blanket; a lifeline because no one holds me. I self soothe until my finger wants to break or I awaken because it is time to feed my dog. I say all this because I feel like I don’t deserve to feel this way. But I don’t want to change. Depressed? Lazy? Dead? Or all three? You tell me
My room is a cacophony of ceiling fans blowing their highest. They will never chill the bones beneath this blubber. My sheets are sprinkle crumbs and twists of restless nights from not being able to breathe. The string from my tea bag bounces gently against my mug that reads “everyone deserves the chance to fly.” Wet tissues and garbage litter my little area, my space. Books I will never read, a laptop that sounds like Chewbacca, a humidifier who’s pulsing fluorescent red light keeps me awake in the middle of the night. Olaf is stuffed between the bed and the wall, getting a warm, uncomfy, hug. My feet are tangled in the sprinkle sheets but I can’t get warm. I don’t want to get warm. My nose feels like I’m breathing through tiny holes poked in a mesh box; my lungs are on fire and I was awake until five am unable to breathe, therefore unable to sleep. and I feel... lazy. But I’m sick. I have a cold. I’m an adult, that’s not an excuse. I haven’t showered. I have a shower schedule. Kind of. I can just rinse my body. But then what’s the point? I need to wash my hair in a couple days anyway, why not just wait? I’m tired. I haven’t showered in four days. Time for that later. I SHOULD be cloroxing my bathroom counter into the next century, vacuuming dog fur until the trash can overflows or the vacuum explodes, reading textbooks that I never read, rewriting a script I am convinced is finished but am worried will never be. I should be emailing, making my bed, putting cups in their rightful place. This is a daily struggle. I don’t want to move. Left alone, I’d die in my space. I am lazy. Lazy that I can’t seem to clean simple things, lazy that I can’t email one person. So I sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep for all the I don’t have a reason to be upset, but maybe if someone dies, I can use that excuse. Sleeping for the I dont want to deal with that right now. Sleeping for any minor inconvenience that I don’t feel like talking about. Sleeping for the fear that if I actually stay awake, my unproductive nature will never be enough. Sleeping because dreaming a bad dream is more exciting than reality. Sleeping because I’d rather rest aching bones than try my hardest and fail; thus I claim ignorance. Sleeping because I actually am, believe it or not, tired. I suck my finger and inhale the scent of a scrap of cloth that is essentially my baby blanket; a lifeline because no one holds me. I self soothe until my finger wants to break or I awaken because it is time to feed my dog. I say all this because I feel like I don’t deserve to feel this way. But I don’t want to change. Depressed? Lazy? Dead? Or all three? You tell me
22-25, F
