Sand in my buns

After a stressful move in the blistering heat, I sat on the same crappy mattress I've slept on for years and looked around at my new room. Everyone kept telling me, once you get all of your things unpacked you will feel settled; I had the same cluttered stuff in my old room, only now it was closer together and the only thing I could feel was claustrophobia. There was no sense of comfort. What an appropriate time to move, a point in life where discomfort has corrupted my mind. Maybe I'm spending too much time looking down, at my hideously shaped feet, my bulging skin, and shrinking cloths. I need to start looking up, at the vast open sky, my beautiful girlfriend, and everything else outside of what I am. I am weak, I am feeling broken, yet masochistically breaking myself for no valid reason.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago I wrote something so uplifting, so beyond this disgusting state of mind, and it puzzles me how drastic time can sculpt who you are. Last night I was a hopeless romantic, lingering on the beauty in life, and now here I am a self-conscious teenager with a one way ticket to "OB-city".

I wrote:

A world without love is like a world without color. In the ecstasy of salvation that bliss thrusts upon the once heavy heart, we are finally able to lift ourselves above the situational troubles that root us into this earth, and when finally the hands of our lover appear like shovels to dig us out of the ground, alas we float into a spiraling lift.

Even so, tragedy will find us, reoccurring in disguises that remind us of our solitude. It will tug on your shirt, and rob you of your sanity, but much like an unwelcomed guest, it too will go. Leaving you lost in your own mind. However, it's okay for a mind to be misplaced; the only thing that will keep you alive is your pulsating heart. So welcome the heart-aching love, it will exercise your muscles for the strength of another days surrender.