Lasting Dreams.

I’m not feeling well.

And if that isn’t the understatement of the year, I don’t know what is.

The past couple days have all kind of just run together and my body feels mushy. I don’t know what it is, although I’m guessing it’s the lack of a well-balanced diet. To be perfectly honest, all that I’ve gotten up to make for myself are a few bags of popcorn and chocolate milk. At the time, I hadn’t though to check the jug, so I had probably thrown up quite a bit due to how long it had been sitting in my fridge.

The blinds are all closed up, winded so that their folds face downward and the only light that meets my eyes is that which seeps beneath the doorframe. Mourning is all I can seem to cope with anymore, and even thinking of doing anything else with my life besides living behind closed doors seems damn near impossible. As much as I don’t like thinking about everything that happened before the coma, I can’t really escape the memories that aren’t really mine; all that I know is what I’ve been told, and what I’ve been told is enough to remind myself that I have really just gone and fucked up the lives of everyone around me.

If the only person I had to worry about affecting was myself, I don’t think I’d feel all that shitty. But it’s the families and the girlfriends and the wives and those lives of my best friends that were taken by my hand that make me feel like I’ll never grow from any of it.

I open my eyes and stare up at the blank ceiling looming overhead. It’s dark and I can only partly make out an end to the darkness, reminding myself that the darkness doesn’t keep going and going and going. It has to stop at some point, I mean, and that point at which it ends was the epitome of the ceiling. As I look upward, I think about how half of my thoughts don’t even make sense anymore, and thinking them makes me feel like I’m going crazy.

The bedding is thick and heavy and it makes my skin too warm to bear it any longer, so I slip one of my feet out the side and let it dangle off the mattress.

The darkness is everywhere, and after a moment or two, I start feeling like my leg is unprotected. It’s childish and stupid for me to have done it, but it just felt as if it was being left far too out in the open, and so I brought it back under the heated sheets and dealt with the temperature.

I’m not even really that tired. My body feels tired, sure, but I think it’s more of just how bored I am, laying in my bed with no priorities for weeks on end. I mean, I haven’t heard from Adrienne and the phone has been sitting next to the bed ever since I decided I was going to lock myself up in here. It’s only rang three times, two of which being from people wanting me to switch cable and phone services, and the other from my mother.

She was just checking up on me and wanted to know if I needed some company. To be perfectly honest, I think I really could have used her at the time, because as I’m laying here thinking about how miserable I am, it would be nice to have her come over so I could see someone, or anyone, for that matter. I was turning into a miserable recluse and it felt awful to have to admit that to myself.

What I really want is for Adrienne to come back over. I want to get up out of bed and look out the window, just to see her pull in my driveway with a smile on her face like she used to, back when we used to live for each other and she used to love me with her whole heart.

I really fucking miss days like that.