Something I wrote a few days ago. Interested to hear what you think, so if you’re reading this, please comment 🙂
She would sit for minutes, which felt like hours, gnawing at those fingernails, as if those were the cause of the pain, the anxiety. She’d rip them like she felt her heart tearing. She’d twitch and shake and tell herself she wasn’t ill though she thought she was. She was probably just too vain and too self-centred. And maybe her head twitched from too much craning to look at herself. And maybe other people do this in their bedrooms as well, but no one talks about it. It’s just one of those things. We don’t tell people that when we shit the faeces sometimes sticks to the inside of the toilet and we have to wipe it off. We don’t say it. Still, there are toilet brushes in most toilets in this world. But we don’t talk about it.
Waking up in the morning after minutes, which felt like hours, of endless conversations with herself, she’d feel exhausted. The talking wouldn’t even fade down, it was no different to the noises she heard when awake. And just when she thought she was about to have a quiet moment, her brain would poke her into action again. There is no rest for the…for the…what was it? Why can’t I remember? Where does that come from? How did I get to thinking about that anyway?
She wished for drugs, hard, hard drugs. The ones she was afraid of. The ones she’d seen destroy people. Because she wanted to dull the talking, that’s why she longed for them. She didn’t want happiness, she didn’t want hallucinations, she just wanted silence. A lot of it, uninterrupted, unhurried. Sleeping pills, spacecakes, she wanted to try them. After all, this was supposed to be the age of experience. Never mind “the best years of your life,” she just wanted some peace, some distance from herself.