And I know that I am safe

And all of life is the same now. Cool, blue, wet water. Children laughing.

And I know that I'm safe. And I know that I'm safe. And I know that I'm safe.

There's a monotony in madness, and I don't know if that's why I'm glued to the couch, but I'm glued to the couch. These days, when I'm not teaching lessons, I'm glued to the couch. And I cannot move, I really can't. I've tried. I've taken more Adderall - I've taken anti-anxiety - I've had coffee, but I'm stuck.

I'm stuck, and I can't move.

The phone is ringing. I got a landline put in last week, and it hasn't stopped ringing. Everyone on the phone is a new client, and I have no friends. But at least I'm allowed to move to teach lessons, and so my schedule fills up. There's an indent in the couch where I've been sitting, and I still haven't done the thing I was supposed to do at the start of last week. Last week happened so quickly, and this week is slipping underneath my feet. I no longer have time to stretch.

There is a reason for all of this, but it's not the kind of reason that brings back thoughts of fondness and pleasure. So, I like to think that I've forgotten.

The couch that I've chosen to sit on is yellow. It's supposed to have arm rests, but there aren't any. It makes the couch less comfortable.

I should get rid of the couch but I have no way of knowing if that woud make my life more comfortable. How could it when life should be lived above the cushions.

I fell down at 18 and then again at 22. It feeds into the cool blue. It washes out the red, and stores it tight and tiny in my head.

The vein in my forehead bulges with passion. The redness fighting to breathe only when it does not matter.

I know that I am safe in the clothes that I wear. In the shoes that I wear. In the apartment whose dues I bear. I know that I am safe because I have to make money to keep living. I have to drink water, that is blue and keeps whispering of fear. Of drought, of AI, of a terrible heat that I don’t want to have to bear.

I chug the water from every singe faucet, every cup, every bowl where I find it.

Water is so dear, I hope that I drink enough, now, in the future I may be able to find it.

A well within myself of calm with safe behind it. I keep it inside of me, deep, deep, to far for even me to find it.

One day, I worry, in the future, too near. I wil sit outside, under the last tree with everything too hot to bear. I think I woud probably be smoking a cigarette out there — to combat my MCAS which triggers under heat flare.

The smoke would drift up in tendrils, up there, into the sky and through the holes that lie in our broken ozone layer as it lies to us up there. The smoke would go up so high, no longer blocked by annoying clouds or bugs in the sky.

I think after a few puffs, I woud sigh, a dig into that well inside of me so that I could cry. I would suck one droplet into my mouth and sigh, enjoying (for one second) the nicotine high. And then, using, the droplet from my other eye, I would put that cigarette out because I would rather die.

Then burn down this fucking tree.