ramblings of October 24th
Get me on a plane. Get me to Spain. Don’t want to be here. I’m drinking coffee. I’m shaking. I’m writing. I hate writing. I used to love writing. I used to love. I don’t love anymore. Want to write poetry and never use the pronoun of first person again, but she told me I should. I thought it was stupid, but she is above me so follow her I must.
Legs hurt so bad because I worked out too much yesterday, but it feels good, except when it doesn’t. Didn’t sleep last night because a weight was on my shoulders. Inside of me. All around me. Felt like there was a stranger in my bed, but I worshipped in the morning, cried, sang, read. Read two books today and felt accomplished until I saw the feast I still have to devour in front of me. So tired of this academia. Scared for the future because we won’t know how to talk anymore. We don’t know how to communicate anymore. We aren’t intellectuals anymore. I don’t know how to talk. You never spoke to me. You forgot to invite me twice now, but I won’t take it personally. I love you still, but not that way, never that way. Did I ever that way?
Won’t sleep tonight. Have another paper to write, but I can’t write. I can’t write right. Follow the rules. No. I would rather write poetry that makes no sense because it calms me down and makes me feel okay like when I would not let myself eat and I would exercise forever and I watched myself shrink but then I fell off track and now I do not feel beautiful and never have but will always want that. That was a run-on sentence, but that is how my mind reads. I want to be empty again like when I didn’t feel human, when I didn’t care about anyone. I was happy. I had control. I was unhealthy, but I had control.
I don’t want my scars anymore, but I love them too. They tell a story, a sad story, a story that I am not willing to share except that it is busting at the seams, and your story just came through. I feel sorry for you. I want you to be okay. I wrote you that letter because I meant every word, and you mean so much to me even though I wanted to resent you at times. I can’t because I can’t because we all make mistakes, and we are all mistakes, I think. But are we really mistakes then or do we pay too much attention to the fear that chains us to ideals? We talk so much of patriarchy. I love the way you use your words. I hate the way you blame yourself. I hate the way you hate yourself. I wanted to show you love but…
People are opening up like morning flowers to me, but they are all mourning flowers, still beautiful, nonetheless. You said you hated my prose, and it really hurt my feelings. I think you are egotistical, but I want to see beauty in you so badly. If you knew what was going on inside of me maybe you wouldn’t care so much. I often wish I could just e-mail all of my professors and apologize for my lack of words in class. If they know how I felt, maybe they would understand? But I do well enough, very well actually. I want them to know that it isn’t my best. I could be better, but right now I am not me.
This year has been cold. It has gone by so quickly. I miss your beard sometimes but not enough. I miss a lot of things, but no, not enough. Not enough to want to go back. If I were to go back, I want to go back to the summer when I didn’t care about anyone, anyone. No one. I was cold.
My paper is waiting for me. I just want to sleep.
