Life’s in a hurry, even when you’re hiding, even when you can’t remember what it is you’re hiding from anymore. Probably just yourself. You never admit it, you spin it in your head and in your guts, you stare cross-eyed into the bottom of empty glasses and tell yourself that there isn’t anything to worry about. But even here, where nothing ever happens, where the world seems a distant planet, it’s still true. Maybe there’s nothing more lonesome than yourself, but trying to convince yourself otherwise is a waste of time. Funny though, giving into it is a waste of time too. Living with it is going to be your days and nights. And unless you step in front of a train the only thing you’ve got to do in this life is come to terms with that.
Sometimes I can feel the snakes in my stomach. Sometimes they talk to me. At night when I’m only half me, when I’m not really here, when what was comes calling and I forget that sometimes it’s better not to answer the door, I remember the life I used to lead, the person I used to be, but always make the mistake of never admitting that while I may have gotten myself lost, finding things haunts everyone until their last breath. And, you know, I’ve been wondering if in that moment you do. Or if it’s just the exhausted exhale of having spent a life looking.