I want to write something happier. But I can’t. The converse of that is to write something sad. But there is no sadness here.
There is a bittersweet weight on my shoulders, around my ankles, tied to my fingers. I’m reminded of the phrase “teenage ennui” as I type. Does it make sense that this has been on my mind for the weeks since my last post?
I tend to decide important things every few weeks. It’s like a tune up. I decide what to do and it decides my actions and reactions. Stew in a little loneliness? Decision! Do all the things. See all the people. Pad my heart with bubble wrap.
There are only 4 (!) weeks to formal uni left. Then, it’ll be 4th year.
I’ll be in 4th year. I only have 2 years left.
This is almost over.
Is it funny that I can’t wait to be alone? Especially for someone so fearful of loneliness.
Why do I anticipate even quieter moments? A studio apartment and only the silent voices on my phone. Why do I anticipate the empty promises to keep in touch, knowing that keeping in touch will mean ‘happy birthday’, ‘merry Christmas’, ‘congratulations’, and little else?
I suppose that’s why I’ve decided to be lonely. Decided. Like it’s a legitimate choice. Because it makes it seem like I have power that way.
I’ve just realised there’s more than one way to be power hungry. Huh.