I have been in bed for 12 hours and slept only six. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had for at least a fortnight, almost enough to get up and exist.
I could have masturbated to tempt sleep but the reward seems so far away. I know exercise is beneficial but I haven’t left the house all weekend. The closed doors are protecting those outside from the cyclone.
I know someone I have been wanting to meet is in town but I can’t wish this self upon him. I also know it’s patronising to make decisions on behalf of others but my urge to cosset from a distance is stronger.
I haven’t told The Drummer that M1 contacted me and confessed in a roundabout way that he has feelings. I can’t begin to fathom where this admission came from after months without contact. I could not have made myself clearer at the start and thought our drifting apart mutual. I have handled it and feel bitter for having been given his problem.
I had what seems to be an anxiety attack; I haven’t experienced a vomit-in-the-throat social paralysis like this before. I couldn’t find the venue of a friend’s birthday gathering and, so soon after M1’s assault on my psyche, I hit overload when I couldn’t find the place or anyone I knew. I fled to the nearest shopping centre amongst the comforting familiarity and lull of strangers going about their domestic business, and hid in the public toilets until I felt capable of driving home.
I don’t know if my stabs at ArmyDude are based on reality or if I have been pursuing reasons to lash out and alienate him. I just don’t know. There’s too much to fix to use text messages and he will need to wait until I can talk, elucidate, not cry. I have fucked up if his intentions have been sincere but I can’t tell the real reality from my reality.
I postponed a catch-up with Jekyll, citing fatigue. That much is true. I would suffocate in his blanket of inexhaustible energy and care.
I am a ghost. I am here but somewhere else.