Dragging my fingers across the wooden table. Contemplating. But at the same time having an empty mind. The stillness of everything in sight, but the laughter of those across the hall: there is life somewhere.

I remember the eyes I looked at today. Wide and caring. Wanting information I could not give. They are intelligent people and I wish I knew what they were thinking when they looked at me like that. I remember other eyes I’ve looked at. Wide and comforted, somehow amazed. Squinted and hesitant, searching. I read them too well or I like to think I did. I’m afraid of finding out that my analysis of them was all wrong. They’re gone now and so I might never know.

The cold air adds to the isolation. I want to cry, badly. I’m not ready to face anything, anyone. I’m a coward.

The frustration at being trapped in my surroundings, in my occupation, in my skin, in my mind; there is fear of being inside and of getting out. I need someone to guide me out, hold me close. I want to know I’m not alone in everything. I want someone to be there with me as I try to make everything alright.

I will do anything to make you feel better. It’s easy and comes quite natural to me, because I care for you, despite how I act. I want you to be happy. And maybe, by making you happy, I will have a piece of some happiness too.

I want to go away from all this. But I’m afraid to on my own.

Finding purpose is difficult. What’s even more difficult is gathering the strength to give up the stupid search for purpose and live life peacefully instead. I wish to do that. But then I wonder if doing that means throwing away opportunity. I wouldn’t mind doing this if others were not impacted.

Right now, it is cold, and I have wrapped myself in a blanket I have had since I was four. Those were the simple days that I will forever wish to return to. I would say that I also regret not appreciating them more, but in fact I have vivid memories of these days of childhood.

Back when nap-times were mandatory and not desperately needed. Lying on a mat, under my blanket, mind recreating scenes of TV shows I watched. In my mind I crafted new scenes, new dialogue, I knew the timing of the shots, the positions of the characters with regards to the frame. Sometimes I would just listen to the soft classical music being played. For some reason my memories of the music always bring images of a green meadow with several small, colorful flowers. I know I’ve never seen such a place in real life, but the image is so clear and peaceful and within the frame of the window and projected onto its willowy curtain. There were times I actually slept. Dreams in those times felt so real that I would spend time thinking about whether or not that happened in waking life. When this happened I felt as if I was also living in a parallel universe and traveled back and forth: it was day, then suddenly it was night and vice versa; I was at home and then suddenly at school; I was with family or friends, and then I was alone. There was no difference between dreaming and reality.

Written on November 30, 2016, 1am.


Nothing 2


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