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My shoulders and neck ache, tension and strain over the ache of overuse. Electricity traces the edges of the muscles, a pins-and-needles quiver persistantly out of reach. My hands interlace neatly on my stomach as I lie on the floor.
I don't remember what it feels like to hold someone's hand.
I went to a concert tonight, and my roommate was kind enough to go with me. Perhaps better if she hadn't, and I had gone alone; I don't think she enjoyed herself or was really interested. And all my paths are the same, and lead to the same destination. My path is always a lonely walk through the cold and the dark, towards an empty apartment and a sink full of dirty dishes. There have been a thousand thousand such walks, and there will be a thousand thousand more. I can see them in front of me, sometimes, the endless track of my footprints as they trace a crooked line to nowhere in particular.
College is almost over. A month to go, that's all. I don't know if I should be pleased or not, relieved or not. I don't feel any closer to the future than I was four years ago.
But at least then I had more hope.
It was supposed to be different-- how naive to say that, how foolish. I expected so much, dreamed as if those dreams could become reality. I was supposed to become.
And I have, I guess. But not who or what I wished to become. Not who or what anyone else wished, either. Instead I've just drifted further away, twisted down an endless spiral stair. I can't do it, I can barely connect to anyone on a superficial level. New friends, and keep ye old? Your joke is a bitter one, because I'm worse, not better, and helpless to turn back the wheel. As alone as I ever was, only perhaps now there's more merit to it.
Because it would be truly terrible to wish this on anyone, and yet I do, even though it's too late. That I should maintain such a desire at this point is a sin against my once-shining hopes, my unworthy ambition.
I don't remember what it feels like to hold someone's hand.
I went to a concert tonight, and my roommate was kind enough to go with me. Perhaps better if she hadn't, and I had gone alone; I don't think she enjoyed herself or was really interested. And all my paths are the same, and lead to the same destination. My path is always a lonely walk through the cold and the dark, towards an empty apartment and a sink full of dirty dishes. There have been a thousand thousand such walks, and there will be a thousand thousand more. I can see them in front of me, sometimes, the endless track of my footprints as they trace a crooked line to nowhere in particular.
College is almost over. A month to go, that's all. I don't know if I should be pleased or not, relieved or not. I don't feel any closer to the future than I was four years ago.
But at least then I had more hope.
It was supposed to be different-- how naive to say that, how foolish. I expected so much, dreamed as if those dreams could become reality. I was supposed to become.
And I have, I guess. But not who or what I wished to become. Not who or what anyone else wished, either. Instead I've just drifted further away, twisted down an endless spiral stair. I can't do it, I can barely connect to anyone on a superficial level. New friends, and keep ye old? Your joke is a bitter one, because I'm worse, not better, and helpless to turn back the wheel. As alone as I ever was, only perhaps now there's more merit to it.
Because it would be truly terrible to wish this on anyone, and yet I do, even though it's too late. That I should maintain such a desire at this point is a sin against my once-shining hopes, my unworthy ambition.
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