I deleted my journal from a few days ago because it was pointless. This one's not much better in terms of significance, but I need to write this for myself because I'm struggling right now.
I'm struggling because I feel empty. That's the simplest way I can describe it, but to say I feel "hollow" or "empty" is also a minimization of everything, and not totally accurate.
I've mentioned this in a previous journal, and I'll repeat myself: at the end of the day, it's just me here. Nobody has ever looked at me and said, "I need you." I'm not the source of anybody's happiness, nobody's desperate for my company, nobody's going to hold me when I'm in a mood like this and tell me everything's going to be alright. That phrase is a mantra that I've had to adopt for myself.
I'm holding in things that should not be held in. I'm living for the future and just kind of floating around in the present. It's the trivial things I crave. A hug, even if it's awkward and forced. A two-hour phone conversation about nothing with gaping holes of static silence punched into it. No, this isn't a reference to the otherworldly idea of romance--I'm talking about relationships, human contact in its more intimate forms. Because I feel no intimacy towards anyone, with one exception.
Most of the time, as I said in the beginning of this, I just feel empty. Whenever I think of what I'm missing out on, what this isolation and detachment has robbed me of, I'm not happy about it. Not sad or angry about it either. It just is. Other times, like tonight, it hits me with an icy clarity, right in my gut. And I grasp how much of the fault is my own and how I've pushed away just as much, if not more, than those around me have. So I wallow in that knowledge and I value it for its poetic potential and some lukewarm tears hit the yearbook, and that's that. Time to move along.
It amazes me how easy it is for me to go to school everyday and be around friends and talk and laugh with them and be happy and be okay. But my mindset is divided in two. There's that comfort of belonging to a group of friends, of well-intentioned prods at each other's egos and inside jokes and witty stories, and while I'm indulging in it there's nothing but contentment. But when I pull back, when I see it from the perspective of an outsider, it all seems so superficial and insignificant.
Now the two perspectives have bled together. I'm an outsider even when I'm an insider. I don't feel too many things towards my friends, except a distant fondness maybe. Look at where I am since last year. I've lost Judd, I've lost Brittany. When she asks me how my week is going (she does this sometimes, texting me in a sweet, cheery tone inquiring about how I'm doing), I want to tell her all of this and more. I want her to see my clockwork, just as I want to see hers. But I can't just dump all of this on her. But I can. She said she wants me to talk to her. How can I refuse that offer? But what if she tires of the angst, the self-righteous moodiness? I love her so much. I do. Telling her I have a crush on her would be like someone with pneumonia saying he has the common cold.
There's absolutely no coherence to this journal. That's fine. I'm just purging myself of...things. I feel really inhuman. Maybe that's a better descriptor than empty. Man, I just love how writing shit like this really dramatizes life. What I just wrote can probably be summed up in the simplest of ways. Like this:
I'm a self-absorbed bitch who feels nothing towards her own friends and is constantly alone and doesn't give a fuck. I separate myself from others even when I'm with them and I have a lot to say but I value silence more than anything else.