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Who The Hell Cries Outside of a Subway?!

by meg ivy brunning 10 months ago in humanity · updated 10 months ago
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I am. Apparently.

Original Artwork by me: "Nothing matters" (Bittersweet Collection / Meg Ivy Brunning 2021).

The sun was shining today, I had to put sunglasses on.

It’s February.

The wind was kicking me in the ass, as me and Gabby walked around town. I saw something I didn’t want to see and had to take a minute to sit down and try not to cry. Then I heard the sounds of an ambulance and really?! It was as if something — or someone — was up there, willing me to have a breakdown outside of a fucking Subway. Who the fuck cries outside of a Sub-well I mean I nearly did but managed to gather it together until me and Gabby were sat outside the pub that’s been closed for months-way?!

I feel like grief is trying to pour as much misery into me, while I’m trying to squeeze it out. Water droplets fall from it as I ring it out and try to clean up the mess you made— Except it wasn’t really me that created this mess was it? No! It was simply the fact that someone who was once here, isn’t. And now I’m trying really bloody hard to pull myself together and get everything done. No!

Grief is gritty and its jarring, its static and radio silence and its sounds playing too loud over and over and over again.

It’s finding a quiet place in a house party — while I try to keep myself on my feet, while ignoring the fact that I can’t even walk in a straight line — but I can still hear all of the loud music — and well, I probably shouldn’t call it music, since it’s more like noise. Repetitive noise and people head banging out of time, which has never made any fucking sense, but it makes sense to them. And I guess, each to their own right? Why should I judge, but I just wish I could understand people’s minds better — and conversations that are happening inside of a place full of people buzzed or high or both or smiling or crying or throwing up in my upstairs bathroom, as I try to forget about the fact that I’m going to have to clean it all up tomorrow.

So, yeah it’s a party.

It’s the part of the party where I have to sneak off to my bedroom, the remnants of the weed I had smoked earlier on in the night — against my best wishes and rational state of mind, because it was being offered to me and why not right? I mean I’m in Uni and I’m allowed to be stupid because I’m 21 and I don’t know any better and it’s like what else am I going to do to get me through this night? — at the back of my throat or the smell of alcohol surrounding my senses — from the bottle of wine I had trekked to the nearest Offie to get, as the man bid me a good night and I, stupidly said sure, and then went on to invite him to the house party as if a 45 year old man would want to become apart of my stupid house party with music which isn’t even music and people dancing out of time and mud all over the wooden floors I adore in the kitchen and me with my stupid camcorder trying to fucking document moments as if I’m a director — ignoring the sticky floors as I try to quietly go up the stairs, smiling at people as I go or even just mustering a simple nod their way.

It’s walking and then stepping in a puddle, swearing to myself because I’m late for a lecture and I absolutely cannot turn back now since I’m 5 minutes away and — does it even really matter? — The water splashing back and hitting your tight covered legs, leaving muddy splotches here and there. It’s wanting — no needing to scream into the void — my Mum telling me that maybe we should travel to a field and just scream for a bit — screaming out all of my insecurities and worries and anxieties and wishful thinking into the great abyssor from the top of a hill, I’m yet to try either.

It’s trying to ignore this melancholic feeling that fills up my chest, pressing on it so hard and tight that I feel as though I can’t breathe — and then I’m back at that stupid party again and my housemate walks in with some of his friends, showcasing my room as if it’s the best thing they had all ever put eyes on in the entire world and my heart feels a little warmer than it did before but I’m still not convinced.


About the author

meg ivy brunning

writing whatever is on my mind and about music i really like (and sometimes don't like) ... or something like that <3

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