It is disheartening to know that the unsettled anxious feeling that nestles into the hollow of my being is the only thing to rouse up any sort of words. It is hard to describe the feeling of crawling away from happiness for me. I am generally pleased with any state of my life because I have made the choices to get where I am at all times. Happiness is not how I have described the status of my existence in the past. I have been happy but never have I thought that I am happy.
I have been uncomfortably happy for the past oh-so-many-months. I was happy. And today. Yesterday. A few days before that. I woke up and pleasure and my innate ability to be in control of how I behave and feel sank in, again. So, I write. I am no longer claiming happiness and somehow the sheer distaste that dwells in my mouth with my present situation inspires me to pour out once again.
How repulsive I am. The sweetness and the sex and the security fades and I must find comfort in the spaces between the lines I write. I wish the sweetness never ended. I wish the comfort was constant and the lines would always form.
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