DON'T BLINK.

I don’t want to dream through our lives together, don’t want to sleep in, don’t want to put on my sunglasses and pretend that life’s a vacation. The fantasy is that I want to exist in reality; the fantasy is to be there for someone on a Sunday morning but also on a Tuesday night, when the haze and laze of the weekend has worn thin and seems far away as ever.

Human beings are free except when humanity needs them.

It’s our job. We’re the wicked witch. We promised gingerbread, but we eat the little bastards alive.

I’m so tired. Sleep’s been stalking me for too long to remember. Inevitable I suppose. Sadly though, I’m not looking forward to the prospect. I say “sadly” because there was a time when I actually enjoyed sleeping. In fact I slept all the time.

There is nothing pretty about the words exchanged during a fight between two people. There is no tangible resolution to it either. The reality is words hurt, a whole fucking lot. And when you’ve got an unlimited arsenal of them at your disposal, the right words, when chosen properly, can knock the wind right out of a person, leaving them slack-jawed and helpless. Words swollen with spite, once flung off the tongue, rise and hang in the air like smoke, and there’s no retrieving them. I can’t slap a slab of meat on “you are a worthless piece of shit” to ease the pain, and I can’t put a bandaid on “I don’t love you anymore”, and no matter how hard I try, an ice pack won’t make “you will never amount to anything” stop ringing in my ears.