Reading: The Crimson Petal and the White. It's starting to drag a little, I need to get back into it.
Listening: Robbie Williams. Ex-boy-band boy, now heavily tattooed and making videos with no apparent connection to the songs.
so rock-n-roll, so corporate suit
so damn ugly, so damn cute
so well trained, so animal
so need your love, so fuck you all
i'm not scared of dying
i just don't want to
if i stopped lying
i'd just disappoint you
i come undone
I don't think I have much to say. I'm not really sure why I'm bothering to write this, but I was sitting here. So here I am.
Life is heavy at the moment.
My grandfather is in and out of the hospital almost daily and has constant pain in his abdomen, though no one can find anything wrong with him. Other than that his body is 97 years old.
My aunt, on the other side of my family, my father's brother's wife, went into the hospital last week and will very likely not come out. She was diagnosed with colon cancer five years ago, had surgery, and went into complete remission. Until it came back last fall and took over her liver and pancreas with it. They found it in her stomach yesterday. I'm not particularly close to her, but my mother is, and I feel bad for her and my cousins and I keep wondering why it happened to their mother and not mine, and how I would be if it were mine.
And I have two good friends who are dealing with more heartache than anyone should ever have to bear, ever.
Not that any of these stories are mine, but if people you love are in pain and you have any kind of a heart, you feel it. It sits with you, in the back of your mind, in the pit of your stomach.
And yes, I have demons of my own. They don't rise to the level of the ones currently facing my family and friends, but they gnaw at me nonetheless.
The helplessness, the uselessness, is mind-numbing. I can't help myself, I can't fix the economy or give myself a better class rank or whatever the hell it is going to take to land a job. I can't help my grandfather or my aunt. I can't help my friends.
It fucking sucks, being an adult, and realizing that things can't be fixed with wishing, that closing your eyes doesn't actually make anything go away, and that no matter how much you run, no matter how many weekends in a row you go out of town, you always, always have to come back.
So why does running away still feel like the best thing to do a lot of the time? Because I'm not as much of an adult as I should be? Would things really get better if I faced them head on, every single day? I'm not convinced.
I do come back, after all. Every time.
But it's mostly because I can't figure out how not to.
previous :: home :: next
e-mail :: blog