A storm named Mariah Carey is visiting me in mid-February to fuck me like a Christmas song. The waves are inescapable. I can’t even tell how big they are until they hit me. A light peers through. Am I saved? No. It’s fucking lightning.
The lighthouse is gone. Now I’m just a beat-to-shit ship in the storm (hopefully the ship has devil horns). I’m no captain because I have no one to lead and no where to go. I’m in a whirlpool—no life jacket, just booze.
My compass is flaccid. I was two knots away from home, practically getting a sunburn. Now I’m sinking. I’d much rather get burned and know I’m on the right path than drown alone.
But who cares? None of these words change how I’m feeling.
The world keeps telling me that that time heals all wounds. I can’t see the wounds without light. I can only feel them. ‘Walk into the light,’ is the moribund advice. That would be nice. But there’s no light for me.