Brainshambles

Awake, press buttons, coffee on. Eyes meticulously lined, exaggerated so far as to distract from countless other flaws. Wardrobe strewn about as groggy eyes try to place pieces of cloth over a cold body. Forty-five minutes later, hair is placed, coffee is poured and cereal is eaten. The same amount, at the same time, with the same spoon, every day.

One day, I am going to be something great. Working hard makes my blood rush. Stress is something I loathe and seek all at once. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Release. Sometimes, I wish I could show others all the colors I see and all the feelings I feel. A sort of intentional bloodletting of passionate garbage. Holding back is hard, a delicate balance. Cause for almost constant awkwardness.

And at the end of my whirlwind of a day, coffee is pepared for the next morning. No matter how tired, I will always sugar coat the state of my household with a false sense of order. Even if I know it’s fake. It looks sort of real…real enough to allow me to lather, rinse and repeat the next day. And I will keep dreaming of Paris, so long as I shall live.