It’s simple

It’s 6:13pm and everything is not so simple. I can’t leave my apartment. No one is physically restraining me from leaving and lava does not surround the perimeter of my living area. Just the memories of a life once lived.

I’m probably going to deeply regret this, but it’s part of who I am.

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or in the words of George Carlin shell-shocked. Unfortunately, no act of bravery or nobility provoked this disorder, just living. This may be the most honest thing I will ever write.

It’s very hard to function. I hate going out, I can’t sit with my back to any door, remembering things short-term is almost impossible, paranoia, etc. What’s probably the most upsetting is the inability to fully feel…I mean really feel. If I do feel an emotion its fleeting and I’m never in the moment with who ever I may be with; friend or significant other. 

So what do you do when you can’t be human? The person I live with says it’s simple

Personally, I sit at home and live the lives of others through wonderfully written pieces of literature. Although, sometimes even that is difficult to do. Flash backs are another issue in itself. Sometimes they are triggered by a conversation or place, other times it is a sporadic invasion of conversations that have never ended in my mind and continue to torment me. A cramped apartment in Brooklyn manifests around me. All the end tables are nicely polished and the wooden floors are still cold. My sanctuary was next to the radiator; it’s where I played with the small water bugs that crawled out from underneath. They were no bigger than a spec of dirt and they were my company when no one wanted me as theirs. 


I think I’ve revealed enough of myself this evening.

I’ll be listening to Astrud Gilberto.


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