Familiar routine: laugh and love then for no reason at all, shut down; become a cold, calculating statue of a human. Cause pain and frustration in order to assuage your own.
I don't know how to break this cycle and a recent reading of "Perks of Being a Wallflower" reawakened that little piece in me that held so many infinite moments dear. It is as if this soul curls and dries like a faded rose when there is nothing to live for. I want to be deeply poetic and meaningful as I describe how I feel but I've learned to live without words. Sixteen year old me would find this devastating. Somewhere inside, I think twenty year old me does too, but I don't feel much. A writer without words is merely a ghost of who she should be.
But that's how I've been. A moving, breathing phantom because I have forgotten how to do exactly what I was born to. And I might argue that I have even forgotten what exactly I am to do. Sometimes when my heart hurts and I cry, my soul wakes up a little bit. Feeling gives me words. But by the time I make it to keyboard or paper, it has shriveled and I feel more empty than before.
Also, having a C in an English class really makes me feel worthless. I know I should have more intrinsic value for myself than grades by now, but dry seasons really leave a person looking for meaning in anything.
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