mind vomit

I want to drink wine and laugh.

Laugh at the world for trying to pretend that it's not falling apart.

Laugh at people for pretending to be important.

Laugh at myself for pretending that I'm...anything. Or anyone.

Instead I sit in somber silence

that sometimes turns

to weeping

Weeping for the broken pieces of the world

war

poverty

racism

hate

hate

hate.

The drinking softens the edges but sharpens the blow. My mind is in a comfortable haze, enough for words to flow. But not enough to comfort me. Not enough to make any of this okay when the buzz wears off.

I want to be okay. I want the world to be okay. I want the fires to stop burning. I want the big orange man to take his little finger off the big red button. I want my house back, the one I grew up in, the one that's empty and freshly painted and carpeted and waiting for someone else to move in while I sit in my apartment with all these new, unfamiliar things that are slowly, slowly starting to feel like a home, but not Home.

I want to be okay with the state of my mind. Guess I'll just drink about it.