Atomic Citrocity
ugly
It’s hard now to recall a time when things made sense.
It’s hard to recall a time when I didn’t feel so distant from myself, when my feelings didn’t smell like burning wire, a time when my thoughts weren’t kept private from my own mind by the dark tumult of an approaching inner storm that never arrives.
I remember a time when I was passionate, when I loved recklessly and hated with madcap enthusiasm, when I yelped with laughter and bellowed with rage, a time when I felt things and felt them fiercely. Now all I can muster is the persistent sensation of being annoyed.
I fear even that will fade, that vexation will quietly dissipate and I’ll be left feeling nothing but a vague sense of loss, a free-floating nostalgia for some thing I won’t be able remember. I want to be passionate again, I want to be beautiful again—but if it comes down to being ugly or being absent, I know which I’d choose.
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