Grief has made
a fool of me,
deadweight, floating through life, going through the motions,
all the cliches to describe one person with a hole
so deep,
all words fall short.
It's so easy to hide. I'm still functional. You'd think with a sadness so profound, you'd be excused from functioning like the normal human being.
I want to come up to the nearest person and ask-- but don't you hurt? Can't you see how hurt I am? Or that person? Or her?
Can't you feel it, at all?
What life am I waiting for? Am I waiting for it to happen to me?
Today I got off a call with my parents, and felt the usual churny, burdened, guilty sad feeling.
"Your SAT score was such a waste," my mom says, referring to my college.
I almost burned it off with tumblr. But for once, I turned back to the search engine to work on the article.
It's quite hard to forge a future when people demand evidence that you're building it. Why would you need to constantly check in on a work in progress? There's a fundamental lack of trust here.
I would like to be an army doctor and work for families warmer than my own. If they are colder, I would like to make them warmer.
Also, I briefly thought of an MFA, but... I'm at that point now where I'm sure I haven't lived enough. Yes, there's a story in me. And yes, time will mature it. I think I had been afraid that the story I will want to tell at 30 will replace the one I want to tell now. But that's also exhilarating, in a way.
pixelskylines
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
izzy806
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
blakekathryn
