I am a worrier, I worry about everything, anything, and things that don't even concern me. I worry that I might be losing everything. I worry that somehow I've lost my rhythm.
I have heard many people tell me that I can write. I can't not really I have no points to make I just blabber on and on so when they tell me this I just shake my head. I don't know what good writing is. I'm no Emerson, Robert Frost. I'm no Shakespeare. Those people were great and knew how to connect with audiences.
In high school I was the dissident who roamed the halls, who tapped magazine clippings to her locker in a vain attempt to change the world. Who was I kidding, some how trying to raise awareness in a place no one really looks.
I told you, I'm losing everything. I'm losing them to their bullshit. I'm losing her to the pain. I'm losing me to something I can't even find.
And maybe that's the problem. I can't find it. I can't reach it. I can't quite get there. Only I'm stretching my arm until it hurts. It hurts.
The end of this semester leaves me feeling like a vase that has been shattered into a thousand pieces and meticulosly glued back together. At a quick glance no one can tell I've been broken, but after further examination you can see the little cracks, and don't fill me up with water out of fear that somehow it will leak through. I have come to the conclusion that growing up has nothing to do with hitting puberty or life experiences but rather at which point you determine your own assests.
Growing up also has to do with connections, everyday we come into contact with people. Severing connections is one of the most painful things I have to do. To know that a connection was there that now can no longer be, hurts more than diving head first into saltwater with a thousand wounds. Some days it feel like there isn't enough oxygen in the water I've been breathing. Is it even worth making connections anymore with others? With joy comes pain, because it is said that without pain we cannot truly understand and feel joy. So I could avoid pain but never really know joy? I don't think so, I don't want to believe that is true, I want to belive that we have a reason for the connections we make in our daily lives, with the friendships we forge. I sit in air conditioned rooms with boxes of words all around me. I can't stand sitting there most days because I can't move to see things better. To see people better.
It's scary to not be able to run away from yourself. In the dream you can run away from the monster, but I can't run away from myself. I can't get out of my own head. I grab my backpack and heave my black burden on my shoulders. It is my life. Those are my books. It is my backpack and I am stuffed inside, scratching at the zipper. And this is all just simple pages on my mind, nothing to take to heart.