And Then It's Monday

A little math.

I don't think 11 hours of my life has ever been more painful. I literally could scream. It'd be painful, and it'd be tearful (much like I am now) and it'd blur and break and then

It'd probably be Monday.

Weekends are supposed to be rest and comfort, not feeling like you just shat out a pointless amount of time that tore away the one time you could actually get ready for the week. Tomorrow's gonna come, and I'm gonna want it to be Friday again.

And it needs to not be like that.

I can't handle things sometimes, and when a day's worth of time cleaves you out and lays you wide for no uncertain amount of time, and you wake up from the retreated stupor of your mental shell, you realize that the one thing you'd been looking forward to, to get you through the psycho scrabble of a week's work and toiling on your own,

is gone.

I need something to punch and cry into. At the same time.

These times are supposed to be good right? That's what we all saw on TV. That's what they told us in all those graduation speeches about coming into your own and reaching the start of a new beginning for yourself.

It's bullshit.

It's the same life you've been living, except now with no one to really catch you when you fall. When you fall it's all you can do to keep your wings even and your fingers digging into the side of whatever you can reach to slow you into the descent of your own black chaotic id of pressure, 

and time, 

and nothing, 

and pointlessness, 

and depression,

and anger,

and those broken screams.

Tomorrow's gonna come, and she still won't be there. I can roll the dice all I want to, but that won't change the chances of me waking up next to her, waking up on a Saturday morning somewhere far away from this with her, and at a time when I'm not trying to fight off a sickness of both health and mind.

Chocolate is pretty good for this sort of stuff. I had a whole bag of M&M's my nice roommate got for me just now. Didn't even ask. I can't even explain how grateful I am.

It helps. But it doesn't fix.

Sure, the chemicals I imbibe will create an influx of endorphins which will rush around to wherever the hell endorphins like to chill and hopefully stop making a new ocean on my keyboard and desk.

I like this desk. The keyboard I'm still iffy about.

One of these days I'll actually sleep. I'll wake up, and I won't have to do anything. And the next day I will have the same nothing to do. And it'll be nice.

But right now, it's all those hours, literally wasted, literally tasting of salt, and I've gotta find a way to calm it down.

And there I am. Calm. That sort of dull deadness you get after you realize you've exhausted all the water your body can produce out your eyes. My desk is that ocean, and I wish it would lead somewhere.

But it doesn't. It's only in my mind that I sail away to find and bring her back to a place where Saturdays are an always.

The broken screams, the calm, that little hope for her, it's all psychological.

It's amazing how perceptions can create such vivid worlds to get lost in.

I've got less than half a day until I've got to start another. Thankfully, it won't be hard. I don't have too many obligations, and unlike the fiasco of a yesterday that is now my tears, it will be productive.

I think I've arrived at a sort of acceptance. Another fallacy: it's never about overcoming something. That means you had to beat it, had to make it feel your pain somehow, show whatever it is who's boss in this whole thing. It's good for a bit, but you can't fight such pains of society and life.

At one point, you've got to terms with the simple fact that as long as you accept the bad, there will be good. And as a long as you accept the good, there will be bad. It's not anything philosophical, it's just reality. And I think I can be there, now.

Just in time for Monday.