Kurrs' Digital Tapestry of Words

I want to eat practically all the time. Sadly, I sometimes lack drive to do anything that isn't work or escapism (really, work probably IS escapism, but tomato, tomato). So I'm hungry, and then I get kinda upset, and then I focus on things that actually are upsetting me while upset, then I eat, and now I'm been focusing on that which upsets me. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes the good parts of the day are the hardest. I woke up, I felt rested, and I skated out to meet you. You were radiant, warm, and soft. And I didn't feel sad about it, not one bit. Then I left you to your day, and it slowly dragged down again. I don't want to be that person to you. I know I've leaned on you a few times, but I don't want to do that. I'd rather be swallowed up inside myself - it's not like you could help me anyways. I hope that you and I work out some day, and that it is like summer days: all sparkle and warmth and impermanence.

Warm milk time, kitten needs to sleep.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 11:43 PM | Permalink

Continue running.

Run until your ankles bleed. Run until every ounce of fat slides off your already shrivelled body. Run until you burn the muscles that propel you forward. Run perhaps so that you might sleep. But you don’t, you run there too. You awake exhausted because you keep running in your sleep.

I can’t outrun you. But I will try.

Alternate Title: If I’m Going To Be Depressed, I Might As Well Get Really Good At Something

Posted by Kurrs at 10:44 AM | Permalink

Run.

Run until it burns. Run until the tops of your feet hurt. Run and challenge and strive until your legs are a warzone of scrapes and bruises and your muscles sit proud and swollen. Run until your entire body aches.

Push the rest of yourself, push towards something, something simple. A ball. A moment. Push until you become the razor sharp moment. Push so that you live up to your name. Push past social graces, past conversations, past the constant feeling of being alone. Bleed, strive, persevere. Spitting up blood is the goal, not a side effect.

I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone. I'm not sure I want to do anything that involves me. Let it be simple, let it be work, let it be sport, let it be art. I want things I can lose myself in. Large, perfect, black holes - that I can fall into until time ends.

Collapsing as I go.

Currently Listening: Stars - I Died So I Could Haunt You (Listen)

Posted by Kurrs at 10:38 AM | Permalink