Hope.

I sit in the office, unable to focus on the unread emails piling up in my inbox.  A piece of me feels empty, alone and in need of comfort.  A piece of me I am becoming more and more convinced I may have been born without.  I can't place my finger on it.  I can't explain more than the simple fact that I am acknowledging something is missing.  I don't know what this something is, but it's gone, and I feel incomplete.

I sit at my desk, wondering where to begin; not just with work but with my life, suffocating me as each minute passes.  The feeling of isolation can be unbearable, and if you've never experienced it, be grateful. 

Typing out texts, only to not send them because there's no place or time to be vulnerable today.  Nobody wants to hear it; not co workers, the world of facebook.  Nobody.

I am equally to blame for wanting to keep my feelings to myself today.  I'm not the type of person to blame others, and I'm sure as hell not going to start today.  Or is that my problem?  Do I want to bear responsibility for too many things around me, so much so that I suffocate myself? 

I'm happy with my life 353 days a year.  It's only about one day, every month, that I find myself disgusted, isolated and alone.  I wonder if I ever were to let someone in; would they be able to handle me on these dark seemingly hopeless days?  I fear the worst, and don't dare expect the best; although would expecting the best be some sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy? 

In one of my classes we are studying a woman from the 1940's who undertook a moral journey.  Since the beginning to class, I almost feel like the class should be studying me.  I go back and forth with my own morals (or lack thereof) on a regular basis.  The more we study her, perhaps the more I'll begin to understand myself; as I see far too many debaucherous comparisons between our lives (save for the fact that I'm not living in the 40's, nor am I jewish).

I'm ready for my life to adopt a cheesy saying like "it's come full circle."  (at least I think I'm ready).  I sure as hell know these once a month repeats of feeling gross are becoming less and less enjoyable as each one passes.

At least there are 353 days in a year that I'm more content than any one of those twelve.  Hope.