Guessing games

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I’ve been spending my week in an attempt to distract myself.

There is the sheer anxiety of anticipation, of waiting for news that simply refuses to be quick, even if it is urgent; there is the continuous chaos of things I feel but am slowly learning to turn my back on, even if it kills me; there is the work, peering at me from the horizon, waiting to be done, but also waiting for the turn of fate. There are many things I worry about, but I have to distract myself, lest I go crazy.

I’ve caught two movies in the theater in the past three days alone. It’s a new record, it’s pacifying, but it won’t last very long until I must find something else with which to preoccupy myself. If I could, I’d be asleep for most of the time, locked away in a place where what I feel is different from that in my conscious state, but I cannot, even if I am perpetually tired.

The guessing game has gone on for far too long. There is one more day until the answer is revealed, and it’s so near, yet so far.

Still rooted

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It is in the vacuum of things – of waiting, of anticipating, of doing nothing – in which I miss you most.

I shouldn’t be feeling this way, but you matter. You always have mattered.

22

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I’m going to say it. In half an hour, I’ll be done with 22. And I’m glad, because 22 was straight up the worst year of my life so far.

It is not entirely because of all the misfortune that came with it. I’d like to think that it is because 22 was when I truly lost all my innocence – short of taking a life or committing some sort of grave crime. I have done things that I can say I truly regret, and will continue to do so for the rest of my life, stowed away in the back of my mind, like an image so grotesque and scary that you cover, but for some reason still furtively pull back that cover a few inches just to stare and gawk at its horribleness, even though you know that every second you spend looking at it burns it ever deeper in your mind’s eye, to be conjured at your most vulnerable moments only to scare you when you do not need to be scared.

I still don’t think I deserve any forgiveness for those things, even though that that’s really all I wish for in my day. I don’t want anything else. I will be happy if given this, but not the kind of ecstatic happy; just the kind of happy that is a lonely, quiet peace that would help quell the mind’s storms.

I still wish I had not done the things I did. But an even more reasonable part of me is thinking that had I not done them and gotten them out of the way, I might have gone on to commit atrocities even worse.

So, I suppose – many happy returns.