#johnwriting

I remember a time when everyone I loved hated me because I hated them. So what, so what, so fucking what. I remember a time when belly buttons were knee high When only shitting was dirty and everything else clean and beautiful. I can't remember anything without a sadness so deep that it hardly becomes known to me. so deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own STUPIDITY And so I go rambling on with a hey nonny nonny no no no

[John, excerpt from letter to Stuart Sutcliffe (unsent), 1961]

RIP you. He’s going to be fine, look:

johnson wakes up with a start one morning, clammy hands reaching over to turn off the alarm on his phone. jenny’s already up, and gone to work at the hospital. she saves people. kids, actually. it’s what she does. and he – saves pucks. and tries to save people. sometimes it doesn’t work. sometimes it does. he rarely gets to decide.

he stares up at the stucco ceiling, at the yellow stain in the corner from the time their upstairs neighbours flooded the bathroom, and fucking thinks. and then it’s like a light comes on in his head, blinding, and the pressure builds up in his throat, rising, rising, and then he says, out loud to no one but himself and the birds singing outside:

“i’ve forgotten to live.”

the pressure stops. he breathes.