Pagey
Bluelight Crew
Didn't know what to do, so for whatever it's worth.
It’s funny how they tell you to take things ‘one day at a time’. Like it’s supposed to make things better. One day at a time, one day at a time.
I still haven’t figured out how one day at a time is meant to help when you’re riding the cataclysmic whirlwind of your thoughts at 3am, crunched up under your pillows with your head held low and the tears slowly trickling down onto your freshly-washed sheets.
They’re freshly-washed because you thought that would make a difference.
Kind of like the one day at a time thing.
And then that whirlwind turns into a sudden vortex, all-encompassing in its darkness and solitude and wish to tear free from the gravitational misery tying you to those damn pillows. It’s a gaping hole slowly burning into the air in front of you, blackening the edges, cremating the vague pillars of self-acceptance you’d thrown up around yourself in a delusional attempt to believe.
But believe what exactly? I don’t know, I guess that’s the big question really, isn’t it. What we’re meant to believe in to be able to take it one day at a time.
And then the clock rings 4, and nothing’s changed. Sometimes they even say one hour at a time.
Is taking it one hour at a time simply jumping on the wave from stimulated self-hatred to depressed acceptance of your own pointlessness?
Knowing your eyes will force themselves shut eventually doesn’t make a difference. You wake up and the sun’s shining, and the birds are singing but all you can hear is a dull shrill hammering your own tediousness deeper and deeper down your throat. Deeper and deeper, ‘til you can’t breathe but you get yourself out of those tear-streaked pillows anyway and you put on that clown face and you say you’re fine.
And then it’s 3am again.
It’s funny how they tell you to take things ‘one day at a time’. Like it’s supposed to make things better. One day at a time, one day at a time.
I still haven’t figured out how one day at a time is meant to help when you’re riding the cataclysmic whirlwind of your thoughts at 3am, crunched up under your pillows with your head held low and the tears slowly trickling down onto your freshly-washed sheets.
They’re freshly-washed because you thought that would make a difference.
Kind of like the one day at a time thing.
And then that whirlwind turns into a sudden vortex, all-encompassing in its darkness and solitude and wish to tear free from the gravitational misery tying you to those damn pillows. It’s a gaping hole slowly burning into the air in front of you, blackening the edges, cremating the vague pillars of self-acceptance you’d thrown up around yourself in a delusional attempt to believe.
But believe what exactly? I don’t know, I guess that’s the big question really, isn’t it. What we’re meant to believe in to be able to take it one day at a time.
And then the clock rings 4, and nothing’s changed. Sometimes they even say one hour at a time.
Is taking it one hour at a time simply jumping on the wave from stimulated self-hatred to depressed acceptance of your own pointlessness?
Knowing your eyes will force themselves shut eventually doesn’t make a difference. You wake up and the sun’s shining, and the birds are singing but all you can hear is a dull shrill hammering your own tediousness deeper and deeper down your throat. Deeper and deeper, ‘til you can’t breathe but you get yourself out of those tear-streaked pillows anyway and you put on that clown face and you say you’re fine.
And then it’s 3am again.
. You do a good job at painting a picture of bleakness and isolation that goes with severe depression that i sadly know all to well. Only someone who has been there could describe it and you did a awesome job of it.