(You’re the only one who reads this, anyhow.)
It’s 1AM and I’m feeling journal-y. My composition book for the semester is almost all filled up of memories and feelings and thoughts and sadnesses and ideas and regrets.
Right now I’m online chatting with a boy I met in class. We’re talking about books. About how he loves Fydor Dostoevesky and Faulkner. And maybe it’s because I’m listening to Bright Eyes, and maybe it’s just because I’m trying to recall books I’ve read and loved… That I’m sitting here reminiscing about the WV media center. About those quiet mornings with Liberty, going up and down the 4 aisles of books looking at all the lovely volumes. Oh yes, it’s the Bright Eyes and eels. Maybe it’s just late and I haven’t studied for finals at all and I feel slave to the internet. I don’t like this boy, particularly. And I have to keep remembering I have to be deliberate about my actions so as not to lead him on. I’ve already made that mistake. I’m afraid all my new friends are male, and I’m terribly afraid that that means there’s something wrong with me. Today I’ve been having occasional short, subtle anxiety attacks. Or something like that. Where, for 10 minutes or until I try to get rid of the thoughts, I’m sure I’m a failure, and quite specifically, for so many reasons. And it’s such an intense, convoluted emotion, I can hardly even pick out specific examples of the ideas that flood my poor head.
I’m such a mess.