Morning wasn't the problem finding the will to live was, seemed like everyday was a struggle to gain confidence. Everyday was a day that I could improve my self esteem. Fat chances accompany big dreamers. All I want to do is leave. The only place I feel at home is in a van and on the road. I keep telling myself that, I believe and believe it more and more everyday. I wish I wasn't such a creature. I wish I didn't want to die every hour of every day. It never used to be like that, not when he was still here. I had long days of skateboarding and bullshitting about hardcore bands to look forward to every weekend that I came home from college. I didn't need a crew, I didn't need a crutch, I didn't need a substance and I still don't, all I needed were those moments when we talked and went searching for girls at the mall. We'd drive half an hour just to walk in and out of stores and look at things we'd buy if we had money and we'd walk into shitty record stores to look at vinyl for our collections. Then we'd sit around all day and read the inserts. We'd look through the lyrics, we'd check out the thanks section and check out the bands that they'd thank to see if we liked them. We'd go to shows and lose ourselves. Our bands would play and we'd both lose it. We were a support system, no one else needed to be there, just us. This is our therapy.
Salvation is a warm gun away. Somehow I knew you wouldn't want that for me but the thought never slipped my mind.
I rolled out of bed at my parents house after laying there with my eyes open for twenty minutes. It was still morning but my blinds let little light into my baby blue room. I walked across the cluttered floor and opened the door. His door was closed, I reached across to twist the door knob just to check if I had dreamed all of it. Some sick dream that finally ended. I stood there for a little bit, then I twisted it and opened your door. Just how you left it, clothes strewn on either side of your bed, sheets askew, CD's and records on the floor in front of your record and CD player. Your favorite windbreaker on the floor where you left it. The life was sucked out of me again. I just wanted to disappear.
I started to stumble down the stairs into my parents kitchen. My mom sat at the far end of the table smoking a cigarette drinking her coffee in her robe. My dad fully dressed as usual and both older sisters sitting in there pajamas. They all looked like they've been crying. We all looked like we hadn't stopped crying. "Want something to eat?"
I hadn't eaten since the accident. I couldn't hold anything down. "No, I'm fine." Pale and losing weight. Eyes swollen and red. No will to live. No strength left to die, and I had the balls to tell them that I was fine. "I'm just going to go for a run."
I stumbled back up stairs and put on my gym shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. I laced up my nike's and picked up my ipod. I couldn't be alone in my head. I kept telling myself that I'm what killed him. I'm what made this happen. Somehow, I could have saved him. Somehow.
I was out the door and jogging. At this point in time, I was just trying to abuse my body. I pushed myself to go faster and farther. Three miles in, I wanted to drop. I kept running. Five miles in, I threw up on my t-shirt. I kept running. Six miles in, I finally stumbled to a halt. I leaned against the school wall and lost it. I punched the bricks until they were covered with blood. I wanted to destroy everything and everyone who stepped into my way. We are born into suffering. Empty heart. Empty soul. Theravada Buddhist bliss.
I dragged myself half way home when someone who had been walking their dog, seeing the mixture of blood and vomit on my shirt asked if I was alright. With my eyes staring at my feet, keeping stride, I replied, "No. I'm fine."
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