It’s pity I believe.

I’ve been…fragile lately? But at the same time, it’s difficult. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a moment like now where I felt so lost, so confused, so alone, and so… fragile? It’s pity I believe.

Sometimes I wonder, Why is he so sad? Then I wonder Why am I so sad? I have no reason to be sad! But in the end, the tears stream for reasons I know not. And the two meet at my chin in a subtle embrace before elegantly falling off the face of Earth. My whole world becomes sad.

My favorite thing to do when I’m alone is sleep. My least favorite thing to do when I’m alone is wallow in self pity. Which one is more productive? Neither. Instead, I inevitably fall into one and attempt to escape it with the other.

I get jealous… very jealous. I get jealous of those with passion. I recall a time when a man asked me, “What do you like to do?”

I answered, “Sleep.”

And then he laughed and asked me for something else more active. I honestly could not think of something. Then I got yelled at for holding up the caricature line, and thus I was drawn (somewhat accurately) dancing to music with a pile of homework on a desk covered in spider webs.

For someone who thinks about herself so much, I really don’t  know anything. I lack  any sense of enthusiasm for a hobby, an interest, a love. Everything I encounter, I leave. Everything I want to hold on to, I don’t.

Is it an inability? Or is it something waiting to be discovered? I’m impatient. Within the next two years, I have to decide what I want to do with my life, and I have no clue. Within the next two years, I have to find something, and actually stick with it. Within the next two years, I pray for a nonexistent passion to run through my veins.

I’m always playing the waiting game, but the real question is, what do I do in the meantime? If i had a choice, I would just sleep and play and be happy. Still, life continues and smacks hard in the face like wave. How long do I wait it out and let it hit me? Or do I have to venture toward the unknown, where the water is deep but the waves are gentle. But I fear being drifted out to sea, and just play in shallow end, enduring the harsh slaps.

If I could tell people my feelings I would, but the matter of fact is, I simply don’t know how. If every inch of steam I’ve released is quickly dispersed and forgotten, what may be the point of spilling the gallon? Let’s just float in our dreams and forget the world.

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