Cigarettes and Mold

Cracking my knuckles. First, each hand as a fist, pressed into the other. Then each finger straightened and cracked individually, first sideways, then downwards. Finally, tightening my neck muscles and quickly turning my head left to right. The cracks and pops resonating through the air around me. 

Better.

I miss taking smoke breaks but there is a small amount of the same relief in this. The people around me hate it just as much. 

Can't wait to get a terminal disease. Move out toward a duty free shop. Load up on cartons. Burn up darts like the last of my days. Adios world. Disappear in a puff of smoke, leaving only a deeply satisfied and cool as hell lookin corpse strewn across the back porch in the light of the dying sun. Can't fucking wait.

Anyway

It goes like this;

Pacing through my apartment and mumbling some argument with some ghost. I don't remember who or about what. It doesn't matter, they're all the same. Inconsequential and over. I walk by the guitars and pedals and keyboards over and over and each time I take a small step toward them and think do I want to play music? and then a small step away and think no. not just yet. something else, and back to pacing and mumbling.

Pass the pantry, where I've stuffed boxes of paints, a pile of canvases to paint over, a couple lab coats, and yeah, food I guess. Small step. Do I want to paint? Small step. No. Not yet.

Over and over. 

The dishes are piled up. I could wash them. No, not yet.

Clothes strewn recklessly across the furniture. I could at least gather them up. No, not yet.

Pace and mumble.

Hours pass like this and eventually I find myself laying flat across the kitchen floor. The surface cool against my skin. The daylight has disappeared and the potential has gone with it. Too late to do anything now, I think. Well, I guess I just couldn't do it today. I tried.

I had thought about it, so I did try.

It's strange. Having the desire to do things, to go about tasks, even the simplest things or things I want to do, and being unable to. Being unable to focus on them. Unable to commit to beginning one. Unable to physically move close enough to them to even consider it. Like something gripping my arm and pulling me backward. Like a hum somewhere under my skull. No. Not yet. Not yet.

The last hours of my free time pass and soon it's time to get ready for bed. Another day wasted. Make tea. Take meds. Shower. Brush teeth. Drink tea and read. Turn off the light. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll be motivated, I think. I've been thinking it as far back as I can remember. Awareness slips to hypnagogia where the black swirls and teeth gnash and faces groan and twist and the hypnagogia slips to sleep. In an instant it will be morning and it will be seventeen hours until I have another chance. Maybe tomorrow.

Before I disappear completely into tomorrow I think; was there mold on those dishes? How long has it been?