I want to be writing when I turn twenty-four. Is this a foolish wish? I don't know.
I would say, It seems odd to have been two dozen years on the planet when I feel so much younger, but I don't, not really. I feel old and painful and hopeless. This is not a nice feeling.
I turn twenty-four feeling as though I am surrounded by unpleasantness. My world - and I, confess it, I - seem forgotten and mistreated and uncared for, and I cannot summon the energy to feel anything but this stupid blind undirected misery.
Perhaps I am still a baby, and not in the nice ways people talk of babies; perhaps I am still dreaming of things I will do when I grow up, only I'm twice the age she was, poor Kate. There seems no point to my being patient and sweet and the opposite-of-belligerent any more, and the worst part is that I cannot remember what it was like when I was otherwise.
What a miserable way to begin a new year! With reproaches and despair and not a single pleasant thought of the time ahead... It is what I feel at this moment, though. It is how I feel as I am now, it is how I feel around family and friends, and how I feel without certain friends.
There seems to be no point in trying to achieve anything, because the people around you aren't looking at anything outside themselves
(and that is right, and right, and all right)
and even if you try to remember the time it felt as though everything was connected and precious and one big glorious mess, it is harder and harder to do without those daily examples of clichéd life that have grown so indispensable to your comfort.
It wants five minutes to the hour, and I am already regretting the things I did and the things I did not do this day so that tomorrow might have been just a little special.
I do not mind, really. I would forgo special, if I could have happy.
I would say, It seems odd to have been two dozen years on the planet when I feel so much younger, but I don't, not really. I feel old and painful and hopeless. This is not a nice feeling.
I turn twenty-four feeling as though I am surrounded by unpleasantness. My world - and I, confess it, I - seem forgotten and mistreated and uncared for, and I cannot summon the energy to feel anything but this stupid blind undirected misery.
Perhaps I am still a baby, and not in the nice ways people talk of babies; perhaps I am still dreaming of things I will do when I grow up, only I'm twice the age she was, poor Kate. There seems no point to my being patient and sweet and the opposite-of-belligerent any more, and the worst part is that I cannot remember what it was like when I was otherwise.
What a miserable way to begin a new year! With reproaches and despair and not a single pleasant thought of the time ahead... It is what I feel at this moment, though. It is how I feel as I am now, it is how I feel around family and friends, and how I feel without certain friends.
There seems to be no point in trying to achieve anything, because the people around you aren't looking at anything outside themselves
(and that is right, and right, and all right)
and even if you try to remember the time it felt as though everything was connected and precious and one big glorious mess, it is harder and harder to do without those daily examples of clichéd life that have grown so indispensable to your comfort.
It wants five minutes to the hour, and I am already regretting the things I did and the things I did not do this day so that tomorrow might have been just a little special.
I do not mind, really. I would forgo special, if I could have happy.
2 comments:
Happy Birthday.
10 days, 10 minutes. Not much difference does it make.
Happy Birthday.
10 days, 10 minutes. Not much difference does it make.
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