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The room is still, but I'm not. I'm turning interior a body that feels borrowed — overwhelming, pain-filled, far off. My breath is shallow, my mouth dry like I've gulped tidy. My head is packed with clamor: suppressed echoes of final night's music, chuckling, possibly crying, or both. It's difficult to tell presently. Everything feels like a dream that didn't inquire consent to gotten to be genuine.
This can be the kind of headache that doesn't fair rebuff your body — it goes for your soul. There's lament slithering underneath my skin, a eagerness that rest won't settle. I wish I seem rewind and taste water rather than anything was in those glasses. I wish I might keep in mind all the things I said — or at slightest disregard them totally.
My phone is facedown for a reason. I'm anxious of what's holding up. Writings from companions attempting to piece together the night. Possibly somebody I shouldn't have called. Perhaps photos that demonstrate how remote I floated from myself.
The huge aftereffect isn't almost about sickness or migraines. It's almost disgrace. It's approximately pondering why I continuously chase the edge when I know the drop. It's almost realizing how simple it is to lose yourself when you're attempting to elude something — indeed in case you do not know what it is.
But there's too trustworthiness here. Lying in this destruction, stripped of pride, I see myself clearer. I see the void I was attempting to fill. I see the forlornness I chuckled absent. I see the torment I masked as party.
It's revolting. But it's genuine.
So I rise gradually. One breath. One taste of water. One quiet supplication that nowadays, I'll be gentler with myself. That perhaps next time, I'll halt some time recently the beast wakes. And on the off chance that not — I'll survive again. And once more. Until surviving gets to be choosing peace rather than desensitizing the torment.
