Sitting in the dead of night, completely bored, always has a specific edge to it. Nothing reminds me of my mortality more, and nothing reminds me of the endlessness of life more. It’s weird how a few months can seem like the blink of an eye, but also make me feel like I’ve been transplanted into another life – like I never experienced the churning seas of the past.
Or maybe it’s that I am becoming more and more emotionally numbed to my own experiences. While I still approach most things with the same feelings and thoughts, it feels like I don’t even know how to approach myself. Like I am estranged with my own brain.
Post-traumatic stress, drawn out over years and years, becomes something wholly different. It feeds into the kind of separation that is more severe, more fluid and more stagnant.
five or six years ago, I would be coked out of my mind right now, or shooting up somewhere with people I barely knew. Or, I would be tripping my head off with the same three people that I spent nearly every single day with. While it was so destructive and pointless in a sense, it was the most meaningful and impactful time of my life. While it decimated me, it also defined me.
But, you get to a point in your life when drugs only mean addiction, when friends only mean other unknowable people, when love means trying to lie to yourself as long as you possibly can. When once I felt the waves crash against my body, tearing me apart, there was a certain satisfaction in that. Now, I sit on a cliff, watching the water slowly eat at the bottom of a precipice I’ll never so much as move from.