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thingsnever staythesametheyalwayschangeandfallapart whenyouleastexpectthemto.
thingsneverchangetheyalways staythesameandfallapartwhenyou leastexpectthemto.
Things neverchangetheyalways staythesame and fallapart when you most expect them to.
And so you cope.
Things never stay the same. Things never change, and you can fucking guarantee they'll fall apart. Welcome to the world. Have a nice stay.
It's the kind of hand you get dealt in life; now and then. To deal with as you see fit. Deal with as you see fit, and so you sit. Alone, unlit room, vodka. Whiskey, beer. Pills, smokes. Whatever helps you through the darkness of the night. And so you sit, refusing to submit to the urge to crawl beneath the covers, because you know that all you achieve through that is welcoming the night that you do not want to go so gently into. The night that is certainly not so good.
Yeah, that night. You know what I mean, friend. The night that sits on your shoulder, grins next to your ear. The oppressive blackness that lingers even when moonlight shines through upon you. Where you feel the weight pressing you down into apathy, down that spiral you fear to tread. To the veil you really do not want to pierce tonight. The bleak alone times, lying beneath the suffocating weight of your sheets, too cold, too hot, sweating, shivering, never quite comfy and not knowing why; the times when you're stuck with just yourself for company. The times when you reach an arm across to someone who isn't there, who was never quite there, who never will be. So you curl against yourself, against the darkness.
The times when you stare up sightless at the ceiling. Counting time. Watching light creep across you, bringing you back to a new day you don't want to face. Sleepless, drifting inside your own skull. Waiting to rise again because you have to. Wishing for sleep that you can't quite grasp.
The times you have to get away from, now and then. Every day. The formless black you don't know how to deal with that you have to drive from your head. That recurring thought, that tiny part of you that speaks up in the emptiness and keeps you from sleep or conscious thought. Keeps you in fucking limbo. The tiny part you wish you knew about, that niggling little thing that's there, but you can't put your finger on it. The thing you can't confront, because you don't know what it is.
The time, the night, you have to get away from. So you plan your escape, find yourself attempting. Replacing the empty void inside with something else.
So instead you find yourself greeting the sunrise with a bottle of vodka in your hand, grit in your eyes, and a few friends you don't really know any better than you know yourself. Sitting, talking nothing as the day dawns. The sweat of a club clinging to your flesh, the surge of alcohol through your blood, the vague pulse of impending disaster throbbing in greasy waves behind your eyeballs. Another night defeated as exhaustion eventually claws you down into her bony embrace.
So instead you find yourself walking as day dawns again, looking out over a cold grey sea glittering with the sun's first touch. Chill wind, the bite of sand and salt against your face. The taste of ash in your mouth, cracked lips. A twist of a smile fixed on your face that you don't quite know how to get rid of. Another night defeated, and the cold comfort of your bed an hour's walk away.
So instead you find yourself on a sofa in the darkest part of the night, with an angel curled against you as the drugs take hold. Talking nothing, feeling everything, yet despite all the sharpness and clarity and love you feel you still don't know yourself. But you smile, because you can't help it, and you smile because you need to, want to, and because of the beauty cuddling against your side. Another night defeated, and the sink into sleep is almost blissful.
So instead you find yourself sat in front of the cold harsh glow of a computer screen, watching seconds of your life tick by later into the night. Wanting to sleep, knowing that you won't. Talking nothing to nobody, writing a note to yourself with the rattle of fingertips. Tired eyes burning, yet the mattress scant feet away holds no attraction. Another night defeated through sheer stubborn refusal.
So instead you find yourself staring through a window at the distant lights. Another night.
So instead you find yourself staring at your own reflection. Another night.
So instead you find yourself in a bar, nightclub, house. Drinking, talking, sitting and staring into space. Another night.
Wishing that sleep would come easily, to chase away the night.
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