I am saving my words. The ones that I share should have meaning; I begrudgingly spare as few words as I can to those around me, to the point that people become angry. They can sense that I feel as if I am wasting my meanings on them.

These days are short, they pass by quickly, they take away the pieces of me that I can barely hold together. I stitch myself back together at night, only to be torn apart again through the course of the day. The parts of myself that I wish to fleece off, like a heavy coat from that "winter of our discontent", they hang on me shabbily, while the small parts of me, the tiny feeling inside that I can be strong for myself, that I can fall in love again, that my heart is not made of glass, a cold fragile thing that shatters and cuts everything around it, is easily crushed again and again, yet strangely never destroyed, so that I can feel that same crushing pain the next day and the day after that.

There is no "book" — which, in a moment of honesty and being half-asleep, was revealed to be a desire to validate my self-pity. It may not be for the sake of honesty, or for the sake of forgiveness, it is not a goodbye, it is not for validation. I am trying to be useful.

On separate note, I am simultaneously excited for and dreading the start of the Spring Quarter, when I will be starting school again. This will coincide with my working full time (accomplished by the fact that I will be taking online courses). I will appreciate the opportunity to consume my life with more natural ambitions, but at the same time I know how tapped out I shall feel, as if my very soul is being drained, or rather, is being numbed to the point of silence.

1 comment:

amda said...

I feel like mentioning that this was originally written on March 6th, on my other blog afterclap.