I’ve lived my life by rules. And it’s actually easier. Even if you break them, return to form’s straightforward, repent appropriate, guideline for what’s right and works; socially acceptable.
And shedding those rules is like dying hair for the first time. Kind of cray cray. Until it’s done, then it’s, like, fine.
It’s because of the chaos. No-one knows how to sit comfortably in it without an existential crisis, most of all you. I mean, fuck, yours was when you were ten or something.
The person paid to solve my problems says, “You do what you think you should, but what do you want?” like knowing that is actually the answer, sessions will be over if we can just pinpoint epiphany.
But to want is complicated. I sit in it a second longer, waiting for the change, the new season’s styles switched for the mannequin’s garment sale. I wait to not want you.