I can't write. All my words are bullshit. The world is moving under my feet. And I'm wondering when the story changed, when the key shifted and I'm wondering why no one told me. They always said that life moves fast, that's true but I guess I didn't know what they meant when they said there'd be no time for shock, no time to readjust. The room spun and the walls fell away, the doors rotated. That was all. You stumbled into your new life, unoriented and dizzy, gripping the door frame like a cane. That was all.
This month is full of ghosts. I fall into memories and have to spend days trying to swim back to the surface. My last February in this place was almost over and I didn't feel like visiting old scars. I've spent the last few weeks ignoring the aches, biting back the pain, disguising the grimaces behind blinks. I wish that I had something beautiful to give you but my words are the only things I'll ever own. And even those won't belong to me forever. I've got some notebooks I'd like to clean out, some words I'd like to sweep from under the chairs and couches and I'm thinking about cutting up those scattered sentences that don't make sense, boiling them back down to letters and rearranging them into words that mean something.