8/27/2015 – Day Thirteen.

I was suppose to go home today.

Home.

Back to reality. Back to my house, my room, my car, my friends and my family. It’s weird how I always put friends before family, when at times I don’t feel as if I have any left. We are all so busy living and finding ourselves, right? It’s easy to say “I miss you” and wonder how many believe that sentiment. Those are just my thoughts on the subject, its not like anyone is listening anyway.

I was suppose to go home today. Return, board a plane and jump back into what I should be doing. Instead of living within the clouds, high in the hills. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t pack my things and ask myself if I was fine. Instead I changed my flight and stayed a few more days. I could have easily sulked and returned home to my hometown. Back where I belong. With the same faces, different circumstances. Something inside of me wasn’t ready yet. The more I thought about packing my bags and returning home, the more anxious I become. I am alienating a world of people and the longer I stay here, the longer I don’t have to answer to anyone. Because nothing is wrong with me.

I am okay. I am okay. I swear.

What if I missed something when I am here. What if everything I am searching for is closer than I think. I am tired of thinking about things, I should be doing. Why can’t I focus on nothing and expect everything? The weather is changing today. Cooler skies make colder mornings. The skin I once exposed has been covered from head to toe. I wonder if people can see my depressed state. See you’re hurting deep within your soul. If they can see it through your fake facade of happiness or feel it whisper to them when no one hears you.  The marks I hide on my face and my arms and I wonder if scabs heal faster than scars. The clouds are coming in. I am sitting in empty rooms on empty chairs, going over things in my empty mind. Listening to songs, where the melody flows through my ears and out the other. Words are words, that continue to be wrapped up in melody. The more I pick at my scabs the more exposed my scars are. I distract myself to combat the sadness. I read stories about broken girls that want to be put back together again. I sit alone and wonder to myself, if I still feel broken. If I still feel the need to put myself back together again.

Is this how I put myself back together again? Reading books of broken girls that just want to be whole again? I sit in empty rooms on empty chairs and read stories of girls who feel empty inside. I don’t feel that way. Not in the least. Not at this moment.

 

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