I’ve stared at a dozen ceilings in my lifetime. Studying the lights, the vents, the outline of the spaces between the moldings and the walls. Every nook and cranny. Every inch that distance between four walls could take you. It becomes an obsession to finding sanity. An obsession to hide behind the scenes to find a sense of piece of mind.
I’ve written a thousand love letters that flow along the texture from the sky from which I look upon. To thousands of boys that never mattered to the hundreds of boys that never knew. Questions unanswered by the fears of my conscious state and paralyzing present. I don’t know what I am doing anymore. I don’t know how much longer this can go on. I find sanity in secrets and hiding behind these four walls and looking high above where I can see. Maybe I should keep fucking up, feeling fucked up, and just let it all go. Maybe then I’ll find a purpose for these feelings instead of hiding where no one can see me. Or maybe I’ll just keep fucking up with my fucked up way of feeling.
I watch the morning light turn to moonlight, from the rays of light that illuminate the room. I am right here but I am miles away from here. I’ve memorized the ceilings from every place I’ve been too. Every place I’ve laid my head down. The feeling remains the same. A thousand unspoken words spread across the sky, hidden in the dark overlooking these four walls. Words unsaid in the fear of being too honest, too sincere, too fucking fucked up to really say exactly how I feel. This is my crown of thorns, my kingdom of doom in secrets held above the ceilings behind these four walls.
But you are who you are behind these four walls and high ceilings. Not someone you pretend to be outside in the crippling universe where no one understands you. I’ve fucked up so many times. I just can’t help myself. I am fucking up and I have myself to blame. These four walls and high ceilings keep me safe even when all I have is myself to blame.