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.
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.
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?
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
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).
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.