There's something pointedly sad about the way local singer Margarita covered "Walking on Memphis" that makes me want to walk down a sidewalk while a light rain falls, my shadow mirrored in each ripple of every puddle.
It's quiet here in the flat: the boys are out, and I've just finished dinner, and now I feel strangely...drained. I didn't go out today, except for my usual walk down at the park, and I just did some work and now I need to read for this week's class but it doesn't really matter 'cos it's just class anyway, and there's a part of me that is telling myself that I really really have to start working on papers and research and whatnot, but for some reason, I just want to curl up in bed and watch TV on a continuous loop because I'm trying to think but I can't and I want to but it won't.
I read Gandalf's blog today. I didn't want to, but I felt bad.
I don't know if I can still write poetry. And people keep on winning awards and publishing stuff and I can't even write a story or a poem or anything and I just feel so...left behind. Again. Just standing on a train platform and watching train after train pass by, people waving goodbye, and I'm just waiting for the sign that matches my ticket clutched in my fist but it's nearing midnight and it's still not here and I'm afraid I missed it.
This is the thing with living on your own: the only conversation you have is the one inside your head.
I turn 23 at the end of this week.