I slept in my underwear the whole day. I suppose there is no good reason for me to have to mention that, but I guess I just thought it would make me look good in retrospect, or make the situation more romantic (because y’know, people in the movies do that all the time). However, I do believe that when people like me—i.e. people who are usually self-conscious to the point of paranoia even in isolation—sleep in their underwear instead of the usual comfortable and sensible clothes, something probably went wrong somewhere.
I feel like I fell down some stairs and broke my back at some point in the day, but forgot. I’ve been sleeping on and off for almost 9 hours now, in 3-hour intervals, after having stayed up speaking to my friend and to myself the whole night. I haven’t drank or eaten anything since the night before, but when I got here—home—this morning all I wanted to do each time I slept and then woke up was sleep some more. I’m not even sure if I wanted to do that or if if it was only a biological need to do my body justice. I didn’t feel any kind of actual stomach-wrenching hunger, only the slight nagging thought of my food going to waste if I don’t eat it some time soon. I wasn’t thirsty; I only found that out when I brought my water bottle to my lips in the hopes of finding something I really wanted at that moment.
Longing and craving for something has long since been my jam. It’s my thing. I can’t go a day without it, as neither can any other self-loathing bastard full of insecurity raised in a community where ugliness isn’t optional but is still frowned upon anyway, like it was your fault. I always have to want something; it’s my way of feeling alive, because “to want is to be human,” to completely alter an old cliché. And so, this disorienting feeling of not wanting to do anything—and not wanting anything—with furious fervor is somehow another novel way in which I can die each day.
And I am tired of dying anew everyday, without even feeling alive in the first place.