Living’s Too Hard To Do

“I’d rather be dreaming than living
Living’s just too hard to do
It’s chances not choices
Noises not voices
A day’s just a thing to get through
Living’s just too hard to do

I’d rather be dreaming than talking
There’s nothing to hear or to say
With ears covered mouth closed
The world is opposed
Nothing gets in or away
There’s nothing to hear or to say

I’d rather be dreaming than thinking
Thoughts are small comfort to me
Dreams might be pretend
But at least dreams end
And I just can’t stop thinking you see
Thoughts are small comfort to me

I’d rather be dreaming than sleeping
Just sleeping you’re just as well dead
In dreams I can fly
In dreams I don’t die
That’s why I lie here in this bed
Just sleeping you’re just as well dead

I’d rather be dreaming”

–“Dreaming” by Loudon Wainwright III

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I’m not well.  I’m a shell.  A hull.  Going through the motions like a sick twisted puppet.  Higher, faster, better, longer, they all say.  And I do it.  Mechanically my parts move but my mind is long gone.

Lack of meds is spiraling spiraling spiraling.  I don’t want to be there when I crash.  I’m so close.  Closecloseclose.  I can taste the tacky bitterness of it.  The sharp tang, like a slice of my own skin.

The world is splinters and ghosts and I just want to sleep and sleep and dream of days before.

Was there a before?