Less than an arm's length away, a fresh pile of work sits nicely, waiting for my attention. I question myself as to why I am here. Inside, something yells at me, tells me that I shouldn't be here. All of a sudden the sound of time slipping through my careless fingers amplifies. It sounds almost identical to the sound a train makes as it approaches a station – an unpleasant screeching kind of noise. The pile of undone work starts to holler for my attention, and its cries echoes throughout the conscience tunnel of my being. Still I sit in disconnection, unperturbed. It feels like the more I study, the more I lose myself, my voice, my heart. It would perhaps be a shade less arduous if I could even make out for myself what exactly it is that I want. The point isn't the probability that I am just this close to being suffocated. The point is, what am I on the verge of being all choked up for? It scares me because I thought had already grasp the end in mind, but lately I've been scouring and foraging for some sort of answer, and I haven't been dreaming. All I have managed to curate is a broad brown marsh, stale with inanimate creatures quietly floating on the surface. I don't know how everything compressed itself into such a state; I am not quite sure when all the bubbles from the surface of the water had subsided to stagnation.
On a brighter note though, I must say that I have in fact been tremendously blessed by the constant company of certain people from school/church, and also my math results which I received today. I only wish I had been more consistent with conscientious journaling of every event in the past few months because sometimes instant gratification is best derived from revisiting happy instances recorded, pen on paper, in detail.
Also, Denisenljy sent me this last night:
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