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By JD Date: 2004 Sep 22 Comment on this Work [[2004.09.22.00.22.11521]] |
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It gets hard at night. There are times when I can't even stand the sound of my own thoughts. There are times when I can't even sit in the darkness and just lay in the comfort of my Egyptian Cotton sheets. God I love Egyptian Cotton. But I lay there in my far too expensive boudoir accessories and simmer in my self-hatred. Maybe I'll end up as a stereotype- the brooding writer. God I can't imagine myself brooding, wearing all black, and hanging out in dank poetry cafes, pretending to like dank poetry. But as the days wear on and I sink further in the folds of my bed, I begin to wonder if I can ever untangle myself from my 270 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets long enough to even be the stereotype. This must be what death feels like. Numb. Unmoving. It's not painful. It's like taking a nice, long afternoon nap, wrapped in a silky, new blanket. It's comforting yet strange at the same time. God I'd give anything to be in dank poetry cafes, pretending to like dank poetry. Death feels strangely like the perfect sleep in Egyptian Cotton. |