Time takes the toll of unwanted bruises on my pride.

So it’s late, too late, and it’s cold, and I’m shaking a little and so, so tired. The day plays over, scene by scene, in my head, what I remember of it. I wish I’d stayed in the mood I started the walk in, cheerful and invincible. Things dragged me down, as they always do—the tension that one out of three doesn’t feel, that helps, the lazy feeling pulls a little more gently, and next thing I’m wondering where my energy went. It’s just the way it is; I wish I had the energy to study for the Spanish exam tomorrow, but such is life. I will not force myself, possibly because I know that won’t end well. I might go through the English texts, but something tells me that the only way I can prepare for that exam is to pray for a miracle. English, of all things! So pathetic, so terrible, I should not be stressing over this.

But anyway the music plays, and it kneads the snarling masses of confusion in my head, leaving me with some kind of calm. My sister claims that I look high when I sing, in too good of a mood. Maybe I am, somehow. Maybe it’s enough, maybe it isn’t. I know there’s no options, sometimes—oh, how I envy the irresponsible in life. I mean, it’s not like I’m the best or the worst or what have you; I am very, very bad at being responsible most of the time, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have responsibilities, ones that I can’t shirk or drop or ignore. I wish I could be cool, relax, forget about it, have a few drinks and maybe a joint or two and let it all go. I wish I could just hang out, chill, have fun. But as hard as I’m laughing, there’s always a hard weight in the back of my mind; as much as I’m willing to let go, I can’t.

It’s why I’ve never punched a few people out, for things they’ve said to or about me; I’ve never gone to a party and gotten wasted; I’ve never hung out and gotten stoned. I can’t. I can’t afford to let go of this weight, it’s what ties me down, it’s what keeps me from falling out of this life. It’s made of a few different things; my past, the guilt that I shouldn’t really even have at this point, my family, things that I shouldn’t worry about anymore or at all, and constant worry about the future. The only place I’ve ever been able to let go is out, far away from this whole world, in the world I know best, between tree trunks and cliffs and mountainsides, and the sky that you can’t see from the streets.

[Who knows? Maybe I’m really not crazy. Maybe it’s all a lie, maybe I’m perfectly fine, but whether it’s real or not doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.]

What I really need is to get away. Not to Sacramento, to an unnamed forest somewhere far enough out that no one will bother looking for me. I’m so fucking sick of this whole thing! I’m sick of politics, I’m sick of anger, I’m sick of guilt! Why am I always so damned guilty about everything? I swear, I can’t fucking say a word about half the shit I want to because I’m afraid to hurt somebody’s fucking feelings, and then to the people I actually give a damn about, I don’t watch my mouth. I’m so sick of laughing when I want to curl up and get away, I’m so sick of wanting to curl up and get away! I’m sick of dealing with four hours of stress and friction in order to live half an hour of laughter. I’m sick of not having the words when I need them, and then they swirl around in my head and when I try to say what I mean, it’s the wrong words and nothing even makes sense.

I want to go somewhere where life is living, where I get by on doing what I need to make the day. I want to go somewhere where it doesn't matter what you think, what he said, what she did, why it's harder today than it was yesterday. I need to work with my hands, to throw half a day's worth of back-breaking labor and see not a paycheck, but something that I needed, a shelter, another wall on my cabin, enough firewood to get me through a few more weeks. I want to go somewhere where life is for the living, not for looking how you're supposed to look.