may 10, 2.25 a.m. -- on emptiness.

i haven't written in a journal in about four, maybe five years, just about the time that my parents found one and sent me to the hospital on a suicide watch. ever since that day, there's been something about journaling that hurts -- like nothing you say is sacred, that anyone can read it, despite how it appears.

i guess that's why i've stuck to ap for so long; i figure if i allow people to see what i'm writing, if i preemptively decide that nothing i think or feel is going to be secret, it can't hurt anymore.

the only reason i clicked on this journal link is because i feel like writing, but every poem i've begun sounds contrived, cliched, like everything i used to write. i like to think that i've grown up a little -- at least enough to recognize good writing and when i should stop before i start.

but what i've been thinking about lately, for the none of you who probably care, is emptiness. not only because i've only eaten once today and that was ten hours ago and my stomach is killing me (i'm not used to hunger anymore. a lot of me wishes i was), but also because that's become one of the only emotions -- could you call it that? -- that i've felt lately. i think it's a mixture of having to leave what i've come to call home and go back to a place that wasn't ever really a home anyway.

i think that's the problem with college. it's this transition thing, a place where you're supposed to have two lives -- like boarding school, except you're completely able to live independently, to not go home for the summer, 'cause you're already an adult. but there's this hook that's still sunk in your skin, pulling you back. it's your mother, trying to comfort you on the phone because she knows you don't want to come but she's making you anyway. she fails every time.

so now i'm stuck with the aching, sinking, rotten feeling in my stomach and chest, like there's some black hope spinning where my heart usually is, sucking up debris (it's 2 a.m., i'm unoriginal, i fail). and i've gotten clingy, which is my least favorite trait in anyone, especially myself. i don't know if it's just a mix of pms and sadness, but man -- he's gone for a few hours and all i think about is how we only have 150 hours left
and i don't want to spend them alone.

but here i am, alone anyway, waiting for another two hours until he gets home, thinking about food and how i would love to be digesting it right now, and kicking myself in the shins for being unable to write anything worth reading.

on the other hand, i have an idea for my next book. though i should probably try to publish the first before starting the second, but whatever. the only problem is it requires a lot from me that i'm not sure i'm prepared to give.

so yeah, i'm sitting here, thinking about that, thinking about myself and how pissed off i am that all i've been able to think about lately is myself, pissed off at the keyboard because the 'h' key doesn't always work, annoyed that my roommate's boyfriend is always in my room and thus keeps me from sleeping in there (seriously, there's like six days left. he should go crawl under a rock and hope somebody steps on it), and mostly thinking that if i'm feeling this lost and alone already...

where will i be a month from now?








(if you read this, please excuse all of this pathetic, whiny, overemotional rambling. i'll probably delete it when i wake up in the morning. i don't want my writing tarnished by any real knowledge of quite how much i fail at being an adult)