It's December now and I'm curled up in my blankets hoping that I wont wake up cold. It's what I get for positioning my bed parallel to my window. I can feel the coldness emanating from the window pane. Two of my roommates will be leaving the country in the next few weeks. The year is going to end soon.
I'm turning 23 in two months. I'm making my plunge into the mid twenties, hoping that graduate school will take me to someplace exciting, hoping that I can practice a healthy sense of detachment to combat the feelings of loneliness that still appear in my head when I am by myself. I guess it doesn't help that my sleep playlist is filled with slow, minor keyed love songs.
Loneliness is a painful addiction. We convince ourselves of it, denying the smiling faces before us. And yet, on nights like these, when my house is quiet, I can't help but scream at all those images of Buddhist monks that I've been trying to mimic. Practice detachment they say. Realize that we are never truly alone, they say. And for brief moments, when the sun is shining and I walk down the street, I believe them. It's the fragments of time before falling asleep that cut the most. That time before our subconscious and subdue our overactive imaginations festers desire. Only now do I forget all those things that I have to do, graduate applications, wake up for work, applying for scholarships, going to the gym, and settle into the selfish desire of wanting to wrap my arms around someone. Wanting to feel those same arms holding me.
goodnight
