It is embarassing to admit that I sit here, crying in the dark of a room of a bed that is not mine and I have resorted to the familiarity of pitying myself. And feeding my pathetic state with all the careful acerbic nuances that those who are clever in college (or life aside from college) thrive upon.
Of course the self disgust, but also, the what-I-know-and-fiercely-hold-onto.
Only I have the agency for what is or isn't mine. I deserve to have ________.
I can't even say it aloud. It feels like stripping down into something so bright and attention-grabbing in that powerful, assertive, & confident way that I have never felt comfortable wearing. The legacy of my upbringing.
Why I don't get excited for things like this--a trip wholly out of my control (not that I even remotely want to control it). There is no one listening anymore. I'm not really sure that anyone was to begin with, but also, this could be attributed to the fact that I stow myself and keep apart.
It is unbearable to be around others. Not in the same sense from before, from earlier this year, but in the new sense where I value my time and space so much that I do not want to share. To accomodate. To do anything that I don't want to do.
But I concede my points only in this one thing. I used to not think about whether or not it was worth it because I could not help but love. And give everything I harbored and knew and was passionate about. It is exhausting and I'm left alone the majoity of the time like this.
But it is not back to the beginning. I am not the same but my body is quick to readapt back to the old habits.
I'm tired, I'm resentful. All this ramblng nonsense is self-important fodder for a bullshit memoir that will never exist.
I didn't ask for anything, for this. It was always naturally assumed that my force would be met with one just as equal.
Instead, I learned how to write in the dark through emotions, tears, fear, and hate in the summer. Hate when I least expected it, when I was laughing, excited. I learned to name melancholy and loneliness and how to harness them.
I am best surrounded in strangeness not of my doing. Where I forge my path and leave but arrive always anew, the versatile map which never fills in. Not Sisyphean.
I will not resort to self-pity and second rate consolations. I will hold all that is teeming. I can wear that skin which I fear. And I will wield it.
But for now, in this dark place that is not foreign, and I resent it all the same for unwittingly rejecting me, I hold myself hostage, the Stockholm to my own syndrome. Vulnerability is the only dark place in which I dumbly shut myself. How I do it over and over and bear the bitter marks deep inside my blood. Never forget.
I wish I could forgo the need. The struggle in which I always concede myself back here.
I am still embarassed and will quietly let it flow even though:
I do not want to go. I do not want to go.
I am no martyr, ingrate; I simply do not ever want to miss the potential of glimpsing what I always long for.
How dear, those minute moments. This is how I am hungry, how I starve. Why the insatiability.
