-words-

Friday nights are spent wondering what I was rushing in the week for.
As in, the purpose beyond meeting deadlines and fulfilling responsibilities.
It irks me that I do not (yet) know the answer.

Let's do the things we love, shall we? I don't know what I love. I now realize what a chore it can be when you work at what you love, in this case the humanities. The irony gets me.
Strip me of all responsibilities and give me all the time in the world. Now, what would I do?
I don't know.
This is the feeling I get on Friday nights.

What am I doing on Facebook and msn? I feel like I've been drinking from the wrong sources, and I keep lapping up saltwater, only to find myself ever thirsting and sorely lacking. The fact that I'm expressing such inner frustrations on a blog speaks volumes. I'm such an open book, willing to be swept away by the lack of privacy this world has to offer. *clams up, bites lip*

And in the dead of the night, it's this unbearable limbo state of wanting to be alone yet feeling lonely.

A poem from the other day. It was scribbled down (or rather typed, the less romanticized version) without much thought, but much emotion.

A Second to Last

One step forward, two steps backward
We are doing a tango here, a misstep
One tick and two XXes
The misuse of an endearment
(Chromosomes untangle)

Most of all, it really is the desire to prove myself but falling short at many times when it matters the most. I really don't want to live a life of mediocrity. Right now, busyness is mediocrity's cloak.