iPhone Notes: stuck in weekend freedom (kira)

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this bed frame and mattress i sleep on every single night will be someone else’s in august, with new sheets and a new person laying awake or passing out on or having sex on. the fucked up blinds will be waking up and shining sunlight on someone else face every morning. i wonder how many people have lied here before me and felt like it was their home. how does it feel like home if you’re one of a hundred who has shared this space. i wonder if the lack of light will also depress the next person during the winter. if they’ll cover the walls or leave them bare. if they’ll notice all the holes i left in the white walls from tacks. everything is so fleeting and this space was never really mine. everything is changing so fast and i cant decide if its good or bad.

its 12:40 am on a monday, i cant sleep and just smoked a bowl and cant stop thinking. i have economics in the morning and every guy thinks they’re going to be the next big millionaire entrepreneur who is so much smarter than everyone. my professor called on me and asked me what i want to do and then made me feel dumb for wanting to open a clothing store. thinking about how i might have to sell my car and how bad i want a van. about how i’m moving back into my childhood room in a month and painting my purple walls white. about how i’ve only laid in the sun on the beach here three times. about how i’m only going to miss the romanticized thought of this city because really i spent all my time alone in my room. about how i should go backpacking with my dad before he gets old. about beach boys’ pet sounds. about that scene in almost famous on the bus where penny lane waves her fingers in his face, “you are home”. i don’t know where i feel at home. i don’t know where my home in four months will be but i hope it does finally feel like home. about the strawberries rotting in my fridge that i need to get rid of in the morning

got my own pack of cigarettes, american spirits light blue. guess i really am just like my dad. been having a lot of dreams about music lately and a lot of coughing attacks. can’t wait for my lungs to give out before i reach the age of twenty. my orchids are dying and my shower drain is clogged with sand.

fear and love are the only real emotions if you think about it. anxiety and stress is just fear of failing or losing something, lately i’ve been scared of losing myself i’m so damn tired i’m worn out i want the sun on my skin want to sleep the cold away wake me up when my responsibilities are done. i don’t like myself too much anymore and really lost any mental characteristics to be proud of i day dream of cigarettes and thin legs and loose jeans loose change hot beaches easy living albums to fill with film and journals to fill with thoughts and air to fill with music please god no more books and tests and uncomfortable hours in uncomfortable chairs i’m so fucking uncomfortable with myself.

in the front yard at a house show, a boy rolling a joint on a rolling stone grateful dead edition magazine. sticking my head out the passenger window of his van. i close my eyes and when i open them i see golden orchards blur by. two boys in the back of the van shirtless with skateboard sweat. waking up in a bed in los angeles, thighs bruised purple and green from the concert the night before. no time for coffee, get up go more places to be. walking out of the apartment door to a bright pink sunset, the sound of skateboards and his guitar in hand. load the van and drive to the art show

there is —

a pair of cheetah underwear balled up on my dusty closet floor that i once left on the bathroom floor in a bassists house. his mom returned them to me
a jar of coins underneath my bed that doesn’t fill up very quickly but is good for when i’m having a poor mental crisis and can take it to the local grocery store and feel like $14 in change can get me by for the next month. oh so comforting
a photograph pinned to my wall taken by a boy that i always wanted attention from but i was fifteen he was eighteen. ran into him three years later now i have his art he gave me for free
an empty wine glass a pipe full of ashes a lighter i stole from my dad old tissues incense remnants and ash a zodiac candle and a scrunchie on my desk

singing the beatles on the dreadful drive to work / feeling like a paradox stuck in a nine to five / will I ever get out of this cycle or will it just be stuck in weekend freedom / dirty work shoes tapping to the grateful dead / spinning in my socks and running late to my shift

everytime i hear the song heroin by the velvet underground i see you standing in the backyard of that house show in your brown corduroy jacket with the oil and paint projections washing over you. there are certain memories that begin to hurt less to think about. and as time goes on and the nights add up of me laying awake replaying these memories in my mind, it begins to hurt less. i don’t know if that makes me more or less sad.

wet slugs crawl out of the soil next to our door and attach themselves to crushed beer cans / dead moth in a to-go coffee cup / corners crowded with bent cigarette butts / bare feet on stained cement, better go wash them again / someone please sweep the damn floor / dragging my half-asleep body through the motions of the day; please slow down i’m still in another dimension / need to get out of the house but can’t brace myself for the cold or to be seen in broad daylight / more rotting food to the trash / i guess ill go to bed now / found a spider crawling in my sheets

gold chain around a neck and denim too baggy pulled up and pulled off with a belt smooth backs rain outside the window with vinyl scratching, keep getting up to flip it over matching converse thrown on the ground fingers too numb to play guitar hands gripped tight the way i don’t like but its okay stumbling up and down hills and streets cold nights shadows beneath us yellow from streetlights wake up roll over take an hour to get out of bed coffee black with too many spoonfuls of sugar but its okay hot chocolate pecan praline ice cream wine and beer and beer and beer and a beer can slipped down a pant leg quick leave the store record store used discount goodwill bins kill a bottle of cheap wine in minutes and go to the party missed calls waiting waiting waiting in my bedroom sun is setting sun is rising flicking light over grateful dead posters and paintings wake up roll over you’re there days pass weeks pass coffee for the drive home i’m gone