I wanted a different life. She told me if I dreamt hard enough it would come true, yet I've been dreaming for the past five years, and I am still here, confined by the walls of reality, grasping for air where there isn't any at all. I feel lost in the mundane, the ordinary I promised I'd never settle for. Some days it seems as though I have given everything I have, but my wings have still yet to sprout, and I am falling with such magnitude that I shall reach bottom sooner than anyone had imagined. I find little solace in the people around me, because as it turns out, once she died there was no one who understood me as profoundly as she did. They have all been mere distractions from the fact that once you let someone know you as deeply as she knew me, you will never again allow anyone in - at least not in ways that matter.
I think there aren't any easy answers. Even when I take a day off like this one, bundle myself behind my computer, write page after page of nonsense that will never be read, I somehow feel as if I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. The resolve I seek shall not be granted without pain, suffering and work ... so much work. It's time for me to stop talking the talk, and start walking the walk. If I want to be a writer, a real writer, I need to write. And I know that sounds like a given and it sounds easy as one, two, three, but committing to something and then actually following through has never been simple. When I'm such an annoyance to myself, there is truly nothing left to do, but to let go of the people who have somehow, against all odds, walked into my life, and move on to a different kind of existence. One with less deceit, and always without question, one with a better version of myself. A version that deserves more love, more respect, more laughter than the one before. A version I shall forever chase, yet never catch.
