school is over, perhaps forever, and i am in a sort of holding pattern and will continue to be for a damn long time now. i'm forcing myself to write this; it's like rolling honey uphill in the winter with a toothpick. it's like chewing on razorblades. it's like drinking a warm mug of nyquil.
what am i supposed to do now? what is my purpose? i simply exist. exist and consume. there are so many holes in me, my soul is like a piece of moth-eaten chantilly lace. or perhaps piña cloth. everything pours through me.
sunrise is like the colour of a bruise from where i'm sitting in my studio. noise-cancelling headphones blocking out most of the noise from the highway. i feel so disconnected. only the slightest of autumn morning breezes; it feels like a kiss or a caress against my cheek. not quite cool enough for long sleeves, but i wear them anyway, to hide evidence of illness.
everyone has their own shit to deal with. on the surface i know it's selfish to (even accidentally) make anyone deal with my own. and if i keep my head above water, the surface is all that matters.
waiting for inspiration and only irritation arriving. fine, then, i'll weave something out of you. don't think you can hoodwink me, muses. what do you think i am, an instapoet? i'll make cities out of the dregs you hurl at my feet. i'll make secret kingdoms where they swear so much as a flower won't grow.
i'm tired. i'm lonely. i shouldn't talk about such things. be a good girl, rin. behave. the clock keeps ticking like a freefall. i have poetry and coffee. i will get better.
"Waiting, waiting, waiting to be FUCKIN' understood!"
-- 'waiting for colgan', bono