Beep, beep, beep... Don't even open my eyes. Blindly groping for a couple of seconds till I finally find the phone and kill the alarm. Give me 5 more minutes, will ya? I hate mornings. Beep, beep, beep. Fuck, that was short. Slowly I'm opening my eyes. This tiny movement literally hurts. Wider and wider I try, but rather I quickly close them again. I can hear the morning noise brutally streaming inside of my room through the open windos. 9 o'clock. The waiters from the restaurant opposite side of the street are carrying the tables and chairs to the garden, people are rushing, cars are driving by. Everyone is annoyingly active. Ok, this time I have to give some visuals to the morning, just open those eyes for good.
I sit up. My mouth tastes like shit. My eyelashes are stuck to each other. I feel like someone is happily sitting on my chest. The air cannot reach my lungs. I feel funny. Oh yeah, I was out. I was drinking. And smoking. I have no idea how much vodka I had and I can only guess how many cigarettes I smoked. I think opening my wallet will certainly give the answer to that. The lack of these important numbers holds me back for a sec. I don't feel the hangover yet, but it surely gets worse when I stand up. Do I have to? Bit by bit I'm crawling myself to the edge of the bed putting my feet on the carpet.
I'm standing. Dizzy a little. I'm saying just as many thank yous to the C-Vitamin I had yesterday as it includes in miligramm. Could be so much worse without it. I have to wash my face. Right now. Trying to remember the last night seems much easier with putting my head under cold water.
I told her. Almost everything. I think that was right after the 3rd double vodka. I shouldn't have to, now I know. I hate opening up. Not because of showing the weakness, or the sadness, or the misery. But because of feeling ashamed showing the weakness, the sadness, the misery. I always feel shame afterwards, never really knew why. I'm blushing and I feel like every drop of water on my skin is just a drop of corrosive shame, acid that burns my skin. Avoiding the mirror seems the best idea.
What did she say? Frankly she didn't speak a lot. She let me talk. After nearly one hour of silence I don't think she wanted to stop me to talk it out. What did I say? Everything. From the beginning till the end. I was drunk enough to mention names, places, ridiculous hopes, nasty details, fucked up thoughts. Oh, I shouldn't have gone, I shouldn't have drunk, I shouldn't have talked. An itch that I shouldn't have scratched. I could have saved myself from loathing myself.
It's so hard to give a vocal form of the emotions I feel to someone who's not in my shoes. How to put it the most simple way for others to make them easily understand what I'm going through. I wish I could just open my heart and brain, connect them with a projector, and then just let them screen what's coming outside. Pictures of me, pictures I have, pictures I feel. One picture can say a thousand words without making me stupid with all the unnecessary explaining I have the urge to say. I don't trust the others enough to believe they've been there, they've done that.
I sit up. My mouth tastes like shit. My eyelashes are stuck to each other. I feel like someone is happily sitting on my chest. The air cannot reach my lungs. I feel funny. Oh yeah, I was out. I was drinking. And smoking. I have no idea how much vodka I had and I can only guess how many cigarettes I smoked. I think opening my wallet will certainly give the answer to that. The lack of these important numbers holds me back for a sec. I don't feel the hangover yet, but it surely gets worse when I stand up. Do I have to? Bit by bit I'm crawling myself to the edge of the bed putting my feet on the carpet.
I'm standing. Dizzy a little. I'm saying just as many thank yous to the C-Vitamin I had yesterday as it includes in miligramm. Could be so much worse without it. I have to wash my face. Right now. Trying to remember the last night seems much easier with putting my head under cold water.
I told her. Almost everything. I think that was right after the 3rd double vodka. I shouldn't have to, now I know. I hate opening up. Not because of showing the weakness, or the sadness, or the misery. But because of feeling ashamed showing the weakness, the sadness, the misery. I always feel shame afterwards, never really knew why. I'm blushing and I feel like every drop of water on my skin is just a drop of corrosive shame, acid that burns my skin. Avoiding the mirror seems the best idea.
What did she say? Frankly she didn't speak a lot. She let me talk. After nearly one hour of silence I don't think she wanted to stop me to talk it out. What did I say? Everything. From the beginning till the end. I was drunk enough to mention names, places, ridiculous hopes, nasty details, fucked up thoughts. Oh, I shouldn't have gone, I shouldn't have drunk, I shouldn't have talked. An itch that I shouldn't have scratched. I could have saved myself from loathing myself.
It's so hard to give a vocal form of the emotions I feel to someone who's not in my shoes. How to put it the most simple way for others to make them easily understand what I'm going through. I wish I could just open my heart and brain, connect them with a projector, and then just let them screen what's coming outside. Pictures of me, pictures I have, pictures I feel. One picture can say a thousand words without making me stupid with all the unnecessary explaining I have the urge to say. I don't trust the others enough to believe they've been there, they've done that.
I had no pictures just a fucking urge that I surrendered to, and I was just talking, and talking into her silent face.
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