Leave It All Up in the Air

It rained last night; the walks are slippery, icy where the water froze just after it cleared the remaining snow. There's a metaphor in there somewhere about cleaned slates, and how scraping something down isn't always an improvement, but - as usual - I've no idea how to apply it.

I've come unmoored. That's the truth of it, distilled.

I drift between tenses and times in my sleep these restless nights, and I've a consistent thirst for alcohol. Thus far it remains unquenched, but how long before the last strands of stable snap? A waiting game, probably - reason and responsibility will seem alright soon enough, or they won't. Not much changes the present either way.

I woke to a text years ago, remembered anew the other night, something about being the loneliest in a room full of people. Even then it was pretension over substance for her, but anyway - I wouldn't have found my anchor without that tumble. Unintended consequences and the long game and all.

Loneliest in a room full of people, though. Seems fitting, giving that I'm currently feeling the least bit of purpose with the most on our to-do list. That we're the least active, as we're organizing the most trail events. That I wake the most tired wide awake in the middle of the night, feel the poorest in spirit with the healthiest our bank account's yet been.

So much feels so fraudulent, fake. I wake for no reason, pulse racing, anxious. I can't get out of this perpetual brain slumber. We're both wearing fat suits - increasingly large ones - these past two years. We're not ourselves. Not happy. Our hair, unhealthy. Both broken out, perpetually - my back and shoulders, her nose. Our insides fall out or refuse to budge. We're always tired, never waking feeling rested.

A perpetual state of drugged unease & sluggish wading through ever-mounting to-do lists - we dream and talk of a future that feels increasingly distant, if not outright impossible.

I don't want what I'm doing here, don't know where to go from here, and haven't the foggiest idea how we find our way back to ourselves from here.

Our words, wills, and way all feel lost to us. Writing this dribbling drivel is a start, though, maybe?

If only I could...I don't even know.