Two Days for Every one
I sleep but I don’t. The nightmares began two weeks ago. Now, when I go to sleep, I go to hell and in hell I always thought they’d serve beer, they don’t. I heard I’d find strippers I cant. My friends told me they would bring Jane, they didn’t. All I found was her.
This place is simply covered in my own self-hatred. Here, there is only self-loathing and retribution; they are close friends of mine. It seems we all must face our deepest of grievances. She was mine.
You see, when I fall asleep, I wake up. Though, in this place things are mistaken and this place is as hopeless as it is un-forgiving.
All I can see is an empty field with its tall grass swaying in the dark wisps of the protruding fog. Everything appears in black and white. The only color lies within her piercing eyes.
It is so real, but how? The sting of being alone, the fluctuating emptiness within my heart, how could I create such a place as entrenched in the blackness of my tormenting revelations, as this? Maybe I am more F*&ked up than I thought.
You could say, I made mistakes; mistakes I would go to dire straights to erase and vanquish because I was selfish and had hurt her. At this thought, I could not help but meet her gaze. I was searching for a glimmer of forgiveness or at least some form of mutual love but it left me vulnerable.
Suddenly, in a surge of ecstatic emotions all I could think about is how I must fix things, how I must hold her, feel her touch. I ran towards her and at the same time watched as the flicker of sadness and mistrust I had left her with began returning to her eyes. Though, she opened her arms to embrace me and I fell into them. For a moment, I felt the loving bliss I had once new. But moments never last and she began fading into the very wisps of darkness that defined my hell.
She was gone. I fell to my knees in pain. After awhile I looked up only to find a door. I knew not what was on the other side, but concluded I would rather be anywhere than here? And so, I went through the door and woke up.
2 a.m. on Saint Patrick’s Day. Binge drinking with a bedtime smoke, I must of passed out. It is like living two days for every one. The last few days have been horrible but Saturday always comes right? I think there is but one thing left to do before I let out the closing words to conclude this post. Cheers (Knock back the end of the bottle one last puff). To the bad days!
~Mr. Asshole who lost his heart~
To those who have been through horrible days: