I think I’ve devolved into some kind of parasite. Like an inferior anglerfish that latches onto its mate and slowly atrophies. I think I could be content like this, were it not for the fact that I need to use my brain to keep everyone housed. I can force myself to be productive when I need to be, never besides.
Why do people make things? It seems like the reason is often “these ideas exist inside me and I need to get them out.” I can remember a time when it was like that for me, too, when words and music ripped their way out of me, messy, disgusting, malformed. Now that spark has gone out, I’m afraid.
There’s never been any beauty in me, but at least before I could produce shapes of ugliness, sculptures of decay. Now, parasitic, my only thoughts are “how can I be useful to her,” “how can I do something that she would like,” and in doing so, have become less useful, have become less likeable.
I don’t know how to stop. Being next to her feels like the only thing that’s real. I want my brain to shut down to save oxygen. If I could just stop thinking then I wouldn’t panic when my breathing gets shallow under her.
Everyone else is becoming more and more miserable, I can’t keep up with them, I don’t have time or energy for them anymore. It’s lonely, but I think it’s better this way. Leaving her room feels like diving into acid, but I can’t do anything here but lay down. I wish I had a space that was just mine, I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to do. The garage is cold and dark and dirty and hard, but I guess it’s the best I can do. What else can I do? We shouldn’t move out of here yet, can’t. I just want to make this place a home, but I think there’s mold growing behind every wall and I think the landlord’s going to kill us or hire someone to. I think all the previous tenants were all murdered and that’s why their mail keeps coming here. I guess I’m going more and more insane.
I don’t enjoy weed anymore, though I still use it. Instant paranoia, I remember when I used to be able to start laughing and regress instantly, when we played Minecraft together back when I could still have fun. Now my mind is sharp ice, frozen in place. Why can’t I have fun anymore? Do I have to choose to get rid of anyone? To break up with those I can no longer bring light to? I’m not ready to be an adult like that. I guess this is motherhood. I think I only wanted the fun parts.