I wrote my last post on the hotel floor, snuffing tissues and accumulating dust.
Things didn't really get better since then. At least, not for a while.
The beginning of senior year hasn't really been a celebration. It took me four years to finally understand what school pride really means, yet still I can't find the motivation to participate. The screaming rainbows and dancing pikachus were hilarious, but I went to art history, dried out and disappointed, hoping that class had to offer something more. I hoped that every class would offer more, and I find myself, even today, actually looking forward to listening to lectures about the art of syntax, canon of proportion, vector valued functions, and drag forces.
None of my problems have gone away, except that I lost a dude, who was inexplicably full of scumbaggery and deceit and apathy and defeat. I look forward to talking to people and run away anyway, spending open campus in the library, in a random store, dying to be alone, but not completely lonely. Also my writing structure has gotten better, except for in blogs, where its worse.
Let me ramble. Its interesting once in a while.
Initially, I lost weight because I was too busy to even think about food. From the moment I woke to the last hour of sleep, I was studying and excelling in everything except art history and maintaining relationships. Mornings were okay, and sometimes dinner would be my only meal. I ran with cramps and I ran with flourish. Sometimes when I played badminton, I would feel the life inside suck right from my core, and I would stand, exhausted that I would have to play on. I was weak, but I was thinning. I thought I was getting better.
But does getting better also involve a tear stained pillow, night after night, about the hundreds of promises broken and the feeling of being alone? For all of the new and renewed friendships that were almost figuratively blossoming, the sadness inside still kept me bent and broken. Although arguably, we are all bent and broken, always.
Time went on, as it does, and eating got worse. Time gave me more space, and I found relief in a jar of peanut butter and some good Masterchef episodes. No one understood, so I sat alone, as I still do, although now without the food, reading, wondering if people really just dislike me, if I could look better, and searching for the next America's Top Model.
I'm confused because I'm afraid of meaninglessness, but also college. I can't wait to be relieved of the crushing expectations, to finally celebrate with a genuine freedom, a new beginning that isn't as heavily romanticized as I just wrote it out to be.
Man blogging is hard now.
