I May Be Alone.

On a humid summer day, realisation is futile.

I’m feeling a little unsure of myself today.

Whilst the sun heats the hairs on my skin and I’m listening to audio erotica, scrolling down my emails, waiting for someone to tell me that I’ve done a good job.

I’ve always wanted to do a good job. A spectacular job. Something worth posting or sharing or parading. And then I remember that I shouldn’t want validation, and that the right job or the right person is timeless, or that I’m beginning to understand that self sabotage is as addictive as it is debilitating.

I am my own ruin, in a lot of ways. In the way that speaks to other people when I’m consistently joking about my ruins.

It’s funny, to an extent, but only when other people are around. When I’m alone in my hot room with the fan on and the guy in the audio I’m listening to orgasms loudly and the emails have cleared themselves out without a sign of praise or “we’re pleased to inform you”s, nothing is funny.

Nothing makes me want to laugh and instead, I have this, unexplainable urge to cry. To let out the most miserable, adolescent wail that embarrasses me to my core. It doesn’t happen, nothing happens actually. The audio comes to an end and I’ve closed all 107 tabs and I’m staring at my ceiling with dots in my eyes and it all feels so… useless.