breathe in, breathe out
well it sure is a day of valentine
// this is,, not. happy. or good. sorry folks. it’s the literal only thing i’ve been able to write in weeks. the amount of times i’ve found myself staring at a blank paper lately is a little traumatic. we had to get something out to make the fingers stop having that weird soul-itch and this happened to be what it is.
words: 1259 | pairings: none (there’s. not even a named character. so.) | warnings: some self-deprecation… if you’re on the struggle bus of executive dysfunction, this may not be the best thing to read? it’s not acutely mentioned but. its presence is. pretty there.
tag list: @virmillion, @zerogettie, @five-hour-anxiety, @lovelylogans, @shattered-raine, @countessmissyshort, @lakesandquarries, @randomslasher, @pantasticpanini, @dragonangel-funandfire, @that-space-gay-writes, @a-blog-just-for-sanders this is not at all indicative of my normal writing style/level but if for some reason you wanna be added to my tag list just let me know :)
so.
without further ado
breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
but not great big inhales, no
just enough to send oxygen to the extremities
every so often, enough force behind it to make noise
a longer exhale.
//
it’s 11:21. a navy blue blanket is draped over the outside world; saturated, starlit air seeps through the slits of the blinds.
there are things to be done. many, many things. he knows this. he should do them. he wants to do them.
in some way, at least.
they need to get done. they aren’t whimsical nightly iterations. they’re practical necessities. do his homework. wash his face. brush his teeth. talk to people. move the papers cluttering the right side of the desk because the mess has been there for weeks now. take the empty water bottles to the kitchen. move the loose change to the coin jar. shower. change into pajamas. eat dinner. eat something.
do it, he tells himself. inhale. exhale. do the thing. sit up. feet on the ground. move to the chair. open the laptop. check the calendar. do the homework. do it.
breathe in
breathe out
he doesn’t.
//
for someone who internally claims to hate messes so much, the one rapidly accumulating- slowly invading from the entryway of the room, a death march, piano chords echoing through the empty air, the drummer keeping time with the days- doesn’t seem to bother him very much.
or.
well.
it does bother him.
he just. doesn’t. do anything about it.
the write-up, folded to the second page over its staple, its corner slipping off the haphazardly stacked notebooks. the other notebooks, standing slouched against each other in a random order, the bookend barely keeping them upright, more loose papers flopping over it. the roll of tape and the extra wall hook and the headphone jack scattered across the only visible portion of the end table. the speaker that belongs on the dresser sitting on the folded charger cord. the eraser shavings littering the desk. the pens lying inches from the pencil holder. is that- is that another roll of tape by the box of paperclips?
the pairs of shoes strewn in front of the door. the pair of socks that didn’t make it into the sock drawer and simply remained on the ground. the sweater crumpled by the bed. the duvet, twisted at an angle, practically diagonal across the mattress; the sheets pulled the other way, sliding out, inches from brushing the unclean floor. the pillows tossed against the wall, covers wrinkled from where his head lay the night before. the random pile of things he couldn’t even name in the corner by the bathroom door.
he hates the mess.
clean it up. come on. get up. move the shoes to the closet. fold the socks. put them in the drawer. pick up the sweater. straighten the notebooks. put that in the folder. make the bed. fluff the pillows. please. get a move on. do it.
breathe in
breathe out
he doesn’t.
he wishes he could sleep.
//
it’s 12:57. he isn’t asleep, but he took the empty bowl and put it in the dishwasher and filled another cup with water and brought it back and swore he’d drink it all, since he was so thirsty.
plot twist: he hasn’t drank any.
the light has been on in the bathroom for how long now?, he knows he should turn it off. just. get up. put his feet on the ground. and go and turn it off. better yet, brush his teeth while he’s in there, too. then just put on comfier clothes and crawl back into bed- under the covers this time- and finally, finally succumb to sleep, let unconsciousness crash over him like a wave like he’s wanted pleaded begged his brain to let him do for the past so many hours.
plot twist: he doesn’t do it.
there are too many things that need to be done before he can sleep.
he hasn’t done them, so he needs to do them. he can’t sleep yet.
the folded write-up looks like it might fall any moment now. he can’t see the grade on it. not that it matters to him much anyways. he turned it in, right? it’s fine.
the mess on the desk makes his scalp itch. he stares at it. he would glare, but that requires making his eyes squint, and his eyes are so tired.
but he can’t sleep. there’s too much he has to do. too much he needs to do.
he can’t burn out. he can’t. where did his energy go? he had so much yesterday, bouncing, boundless, boisterous energy, exuded in his laugh, in his eyes, in the things he did, in the fact that he did things. he almost really used it yesterday, too. he almost did the reading before class- almost. he did some of it, though. that was good, right?
no. it’s not enough. you know that. don’t kid yourself. you need to do more. come on. these aren’t things you can ignore. come on. you can do it. p l e a s e. you need to. you can do them and then go to sleep. you want to sleep, right? so come on. get up. sit up. feet on the ground. stand up. do it.
breathe in
breathe out
he doesn’t.
//
he got up at some point, right? to do something? why didn’t he do anything productive before sitting back down?
‘how was your day?’ my day?
he racks his brain. he had a day? oh, yeah. he did. what did he do? he must have done something. sssssomething. what did he- oh, yeah. he remembers. he doesn’t remember feeling anything, though. he just. has memories. of a day. like learning about a war from centuries ago on crinkled textbook pages. he has no ties, no connection, to the battle he led this morning. did he?
he wants to do something. that’s what other people do, right? they want to do things, to learn things, to make things, to feel things, so they go and. they do it. he did it a few days ago. he did it last week, a little bit. why can’t he do it now?
his eyes hurt. he wishes he could go to sleep. the bed is still unmade and he has a burning desire to make the bed, but the fire is encased in his stomach which feels as though it is made of ice. a permafrost preventing productivity.
maybe tomorrow he’ll have energy. right now
breathe in
breathe out
he doesn’t.
//
he doesn’t know what time it is. late, he supposes. by some ungodly miracle, he made his way to the bathroom. brushed his teeth. didn’t really scrub his face, but he splashed some water on it, that counts for something, right?
the bed is haphazardly made with too-tired hands before he sinks into it, curling on his side, into himself. twisting so his back doesn’t ache more after being slouched for so many hours this afternoon. he berates himself for doing nothing, at all, the entire evening.
he hears the neighbors thud up the stairs, muffled giggles as they retreat from their evenings. the fire is replaced by an unsettled illness.
you’re disgusting. disappointing. a hopeless romantic, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever on valentine’s day? not even trying? pathetic. how can you even look at yourself and not hate what you see?
breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
breathe i n
breathe o u t
he doesn’t.
