I can’t decide if I want to stay, isolated and misunderstood, withering away in my own sadness, or if I want to be drowned in attention and sympathy. I just need a place where I feel safe.
I don’t really feel like writing today.
I didn’t feel like getting dressed this morning.
I don’t feel like getting up to sharpen my pencil.
In fact, I don’t really feel like doing anything at all.
What I do feel like doing is sleeping for a long, long time. Days, perhaps, and I slept a lot yesterday.
I’m kind of in a funk.
I half-cried three minutes ago.
I say half because by the time my tears began pooling at my cheekbones, they were already starting to dry.
I guess today isn’t my day, and yesterday wasn’t either.
I’m in that downward spiral again, but the things I depend on to save me, aren’t saving me anymore.