headspace

I. 

I need more life experience, I think.

II.

I put a finger through the new hole I found in my jeans. There's still blood spatter on it (the finger, not the hole) from when I picked at my lips until I drew red. 

III.

This morning the stitches loosened on my denim shirt and I don't remember where I put the button that came off. 

IV.

God. His voice? I can't remember. I haven't heard it in two years, three months, three weeks, and a day. Not in person, and not in my head, because I've forgotten what he even sounds like, and I deleted his stupid carousel song a long time ago.

I'm doomed to know what date it was the last time I saw him only because it was a funeral. The truth is I've stopped counting the days. 

V.

My favorite way to wallow is to lie very, very still in bed with the lights off and watch the colors change on the ceiling, mirroring the skies outside, their warm hues slowing turning cold. 

VI.

Is there anything more passive than waiting? I'd certainly like to know. 

VII.

Consciousness is hard.

VIII.

Last week I remembered being thirteen and reading the personal, rambling entries William Beckett would post on his blog while on the road promoting Fast Times at Barrington High. I remembered when he posted the lyrics to "The Test" and "After the Last Midtown Show," not knowing at the time how much they would shape the way I'd walk the earth. 

He was twenty-three and full of poetry. I was transfixed. 

I remembered it, seven years later, only realizing then how utterly young he was. At thirteen, twenty-three seems like forever. At twenty? Not so much. 

I blame him for changing less and less.