I wasn't going to write. Was going to make my lack of sleep another excuse, almost seemingly deceived myself of its validity. You know the drill. Maybe I just didn't like knowing how long I've lost touch.
I can't help wanting to write about something romantic. Romance on a night like this? When the uncertainty of tomorrow's school day gives me a lingering hope that it will be suspended. When I am all alone, somewhat cold because of King Electric Fan, the dew from the precipitation moist in the air I breathe. When I have again picked up a pen to write about feelings and emotions because, in some such way, this thing seems to matter to me, very,very much. When two weeks ago, I had a lot to say, but now cannot remember a word of it. I guess neglect puts a figurative gangrene on the old and lonely mind, replacing all good things with hunger and desperation. I used to dislike this feeling. But, right now, there seems to be a fine line between what I wanted and what I despised, and to tell you the truth, it doesn't seem that long anymore. Perhaps, this is the romance that I had initially proposed, after all.
Call this a eulogy to all good things about me. A phase perhaps to keep me from getting too close to myself. I read somewhere that that in fact happens, that some people reach a certain point in their lives when the thought of having to bear themselves clings with the urgent need to unconsciously drown out their souls. Tonight, it's Sweet Apple in my ears, singing "I wish I could drive away... I've got a feeling that I won't change". But I am changing, whereas, before, I had taken pride in the belief that I never would.
The past few weeks have left me disgruntled, sad. I'm worried, very worried. Yet, I am inclined to display a poker face against all the odds, so no one sees this. I don't know how to handle it really. I don't want to be alone, especially not with thoughts that almost always come up now - the ones that make me question who I am, or what I am doing, or why I am lonely. I feel as though I will be stuck here, chained for all eternity, my entire existence to be marked with uncertainty, and that any chances of breaking loose would not make me any less sad.
I don't like who I am, which is a fact that I am reluctantly coming to embrace. I've come to accept that I have trouble mingling with people and that people are having trouble communicating with me. "No one looks to me for nothing", so they say. I do not complain out loud as often anymore except when I am around certain people that I intend to annoy. I hate writing and the thought of it, with passion. I now look old in all my photos, due to stress and misgivings. I believe in a lot of unbelievable things, yet do not believe in a lot of believable things. I hate staying up late, but do it for the sake of this goddamn prose. And, as what a few of my classmates learned last week, I have no such patience, whatsoever, and I don't care because I don't. For this, I am, most likely, a bitch.
Fuck that. Fuck that goddamn motherfucker train of thought because things are different now. So different that my refusal to morph into someone I am not yet ready to fill is drastically shattering. I guess some egos need their divine intervention after all.
Pardon these inklings of a highly-confused, old-looking, depressed and lonely wannabe writer. I hope you understand.
This is me, Kat (or rather, x KAP x, the mystery that is not quite a mystery; the masked/unmasked owner of this blog), as of September 26, 2012.
Not hoping for any more.
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