a little less than the girl next door (in_transit) wrote,
a little less than the girl next door

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a story of nothing

she could be relatively independent and self-sufficient and feelingless for extended periods of time--several long weeks and months--at a go. but when the occasional painful tortured late night feel returned, that familiarity of that desolation just... just always felt so very much part of her soul, like she had actually known it throughout the entire of her life, that, she could never help but wonder, that, maybe, she was just a painful tortured late night soul by default.

and that it had simply to be poured into something, somewhere, for some reason, or other. perhaps not so much for the sake of alleviating, nor broadcasting, but that it simply had to be poured into something, somewhere. and of course, she had long since found her own various odd little ways of dealing; every dark soul did, sooner or later, some way or other, she thought. it could be in writing and writing pointless, aimless words that even she herself would no longer comprehend in her saner moments, songs on repeat over and over and over again, reliving, replaying scenarios in her head over and over again, muttering meaningless words, phrases to herself repeatedly, poking herself full of pretty holes and inking and inking on the pretext of them being solely for aesthetic purposes, traversing forbidden boundaries, sex, smoke, drink, food, books, escape...

but some nights, some nights, nothing would be enough. and it would be as if, as if, nothing would ever be enough. like, like, that there might be no cure, ever. on nights as such, there would be in front of her no other feasible option, but to slip into bed, under covers, for tomorrow, tomorrow, would surely be different. and the loneliness of the night past, would remain no more but a distant memory. tomorrow, she would be sane to the world, once more.

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