better and better
I needed oxygen. I needed sunlight. I needed to pull myself out of the tightly coiled ball I’d become in the armchair in my apartment. My calves were tight from a 77-mile ride the day before. My chest was tighter. Things had become impulsive. It took an exhausting amount of effort to keep scissors from my hair. I started new projects, switched from a delicate stud to a ring, gauged bigger and making my nose bleed. I liked the way it looked and the way it felt, both disruptive. I bought a new bike with money I didn’t have and I didn’t care. It made me feel fast and free, like I could ride forever, like I could disappear, like I could forget. I unraveled from the tightness and draped myself in new clothes and accessories with no context, no memories. I leaned over my vanity and stared into my own eyes, red and tired. I looked like I had been crying. I had. I grabbed my army-grade backpack and headed into the miserable, sunny day to knock on the doors of Hell.
