But Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be so hard. I am weighed down by expectation, by prospect and by a fear of inadequacy and incapability, rather than the actual difficulty of the activities themselves. One feels the most lonesome in the midst of a crowd.
Sunday evenings. I pack my book in bag, lethargically pick out a white sleeved shirt and dress pants with a heavy heart, watch a few precious minutes of prison break and trudge out the door with a cloud above my head. And elbow on the car window, with trees speeding by, I wonder why.
Please don’t be mistaken. I’m not writing the last diary of a prisoner on death row. It’s just that I’m worrying more. And writing pleasantries seems so disconcertingly trivial, to my chagrin of course. Well there are moments of jubilation, satisfaction, accomplishment, but they are like the hidden candies in a box of bland cereal, surrounded by vengeful carbohydrates that don’t matter but fill you up nonetheless. Does this mean I’m growing up? That I’ve lost the luxury to be unworried? That I should see hollow eyes and a need for sleep each time I look in the mirror? Beats me, rhetoric never worked anyway.
So guide me for I’m still trying to find my way around.
