hash browns
October 19, 1999, 11:43 PM
"i know it;s over" popped into my mind last night.
I realize I'm not going to have much of a love life. After the past couple of weeks, the truth surfaces. When too much is humanly expected of you, and nobody ever gives you a break, you quit thinking in those terms. Even if it is what you want, and even if it is what you feel towards someone, you can't ever imagine that you will ever be given the chance to realize it. Everynight you go directly to the house looking forward to nothing more than getting there. The place is empty, and the person you live with (not romantically, but your roommate) is the last straw, and even though your heart sinks at the thought of eventually having to find a one bedroom place for yourself, you realize your luck in having companionship in the house has long run it's course. You would like to have someone around, and you would like to do nice things for them, but your trust and goodwill is repeatedly abused to the point where you realize that your friend of 2 years now sees you as a rent check, a furnisher of the TV and VCR, and a scapegoat for when they don't want to see their significant other that night. The last roommate ran off after the lease was up and stiffed you with the bills, but you were out hundreds of dollars trying to get out of that situation that you can't really afford another.
The last couple of weeks, you think you are so close to achieving it, but it was ripped out of your arms by something unexpected and unrelated. There is no luck in your future. You go home and figure out what you are going to do with yourself now.
You've lived like this entire life, and aren't shocked. You don't know what's worth trying anymore since bad luck plagues it. It's hard to work yourself up into joy at the possibility of anything, because that cautious bug at the back of your mind reminds you of what has happened since the beginning. Yes, you remember the nice acts where you actually didn't owe someone for them, and you wonder how you will ever get to the point where you can enjoy them without suspicion.
Last night, I crawl into bed as I always do. I don't think of this act, but it was very hard to go to sleep. A cold front had moved in, and whenever the wind picks up just even the tiniest bit, it makes a howling noise against the window and door. I felt like I was in an old Bronte-esque novel. You hear that, and it is so lonely, and you think of all the coming nights you have to hear it and the rest of your life when that is the only sound in your room. You don't know what to do about it. It's a complete mystery, and you wonder how to live, and if you were just one of the chosen few who had other things to do.
like what?
The idea of your life revolving around your work is very frightening. Especially if it can't even provide you with half of the adventure and stimulation that you need. You pour your talents elsewhere hoping someone would notice or care, but you realize that you half die of fright showing yourself off. It's hard to have the weight of people's happiness in your hands. You can't even amuse the people you know in your daily life let alone several people you don't know. You grow unsure of yourself and think yourself silly for anything you get involved in because it just doesn't feel like "you." You have no idea what the real "you" would like, and suddenly, you realize you are growing older and the thought of starting over again and again is terrible. Some things keep drawing you back out, and they are happy moments, but you would like to trust them. You just can't. You realize you need help with things, but very few people care about what is going on. You connect with few people, and most others, you talk about the weather. It's long and tedious, but you hope that something is going to change very soon.
I realize I'm not going to have much of a love life. After the past couple of weeks, the truth surfaces. When too much is humanly expected of you, and nobody ever gives you a break, you quit thinking in those terms. Even if it is what you want, and even if it is what you feel towards someone, you can't ever imagine that you will ever be given the chance to realize it. Everynight you go directly to the house looking forward to nothing more than getting there. The place is empty, and the person you live with (not romantically, but your roommate) is the last straw, and even though your heart sinks at the thought of eventually having to find a one bedroom place for yourself, you realize your luck in having companionship in the house has long run it's course. You would like to have someone around, and you would like to do nice things for them, but your trust and goodwill is repeatedly abused to the point where you realize that your friend of 2 years now sees you as a rent check, a furnisher of the TV and VCR, and a scapegoat for when they don't want to see their significant other that night. The last roommate ran off after the lease was up and stiffed you with the bills, but you were out hundreds of dollars trying to get out of that situation that you can't really afford another.
The last couple of weeks, you think you are so close to achieving it, but it was ripped out of your arms by something unexpected and unrelated. There is no luck in your future. You go home and figure out what you are going to do with yourself now.
You've lived like this entire life, and aren't shocked. You don't know what's worth trying anymore since bad luck plagues it. It's hard to work yourself up into joy at the possibility of anything, because that cautious bug at the back of your mind reminds you of what has happened since the beginning. Yes, you remember the nice acts where you actually didn't owe someone for them, and you wonder how you will ever get to the point where you can enjoy them without suspicion.
Last night, I crawl into bed as I always do. I don't think of this act, but it was very hard to go to sleep. A cold front had moved in, and whenever the wind picks up just even the tiniest bit, it makes a howling noise against the window and door. I felt like I was in an old Bronte-esque novel. You hear that, and it is so lonely, and you think of all the coming nights you have to hear it and the rest of your life when that is the only sound in your room. You don't know what to do about it. It's a complete mystery, and you wonder how to live, and if you were just one of the chosen few who had other things to do.
like what?
The idea of your life revolving around your work is very frightening. Especially if it can't even provide you with half of the adventure and stimulation that you need. You pour your talents elsewhere hoping someone would notice or care, but you realize that you half die of fright showing yourself off. It's hard to have the weight of people's happiness in your hands. You can't even amuse the people you know in your daily life let alone several people you don't know. You grow unsure of yourself and think yourself silly for anything you get involved in because it just doesn't feel like "you." You have no idea what the real "you" would like, and suddenly, you realize you are growing older and the thought of starting over again and again is terrible. Some things keep drawing you back out, and they are happy moments, but you would like to trust them. You just can't. You realize you need help with things, but very few people care about what is going on. You connect with few people, and most others, you talk about the weather. It's long and tedious, but you hope that something is going to change very soon.