I used to say that I don't break my promises. But looking back on all the times that have passed, it turns out that I do. They're not the promises I made to you, or to her, or to him - they're the promises I made to myself that are the hardest to keep.
They're rife with pins and needles, pinching and pushing and hurting every which way I turn, reminding me of the work I'm supposed to be putting in. I'm not though. I'm collapsed in four walls of flickering screens that like to play back the blankness of my mind, the white noise of my thoughts, the dreams of you, the dreams of her, and stifle me with a lack of air. But every time my fingers reach out to touch them, or grab a pen to capture strands and weave them into words on a page, they cut to blackness, stopping my air supply, choking me infinitely.
That's why I can't sit in here and write. I can't be in this building, home in other ways, but never this one. When it comes to the life I want, to the things I want to say, to the words that I'm going to see bound in thin cardboard and packaged off to shelves, I have to find them outside somewhere. Anywhere but here. Don't be fooled by the flickering walls; they're as solid as they are tormenting.