My crisis is my own. I own it, I live it, I experience it like you never can. I didn't just wake up this morning and decide that at 2330, I'd surrender myself to this instantaneous crisis and torture myself by lying awake in bed. It didn't find its way into my thoughts when I turned towards my water bottle. It was brewing, it was on a slow boil, it came to fruition, it saw light, it kept rising till it no longer could be bottled down. It might have been developing in the unconscious, it might have made itself appear in my consciousness at a moment it saw fit, but it's a crisis now nonetheless. It's called a crisis for a reason. It's not a mundane thing for you to tell me to forget about it. It's not an everyday occurrence for you to tell me that it'll be okay by the time I wake up tomorrow morning. It was born sometime ago and attempts were made to quell it then and there. Methods don't matter. Results do. It was put out there, like Blind Willie Johnson's dulcet moaning for anybody to catch and it was duly caught. Fucking ego. And now I struggle to make two thoughts connect. Don't come in here with your rainbow-flowing-cheery-sunshine and tell me it's all going to be okay. Tomorrow's just another day. For the crisis to continue, for me to wallow and for you to leave me be.
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Some voices in the head are annoying as fuck.
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Some voices in the head are annoying as fuck.
