fleeting passions

It’s amazing how a few words so carelessly stringed together – in jest, perhaps, on the part of one who conjured them – could affect me to the point that I would want nothing but to crawl inside a hole and emerge only when I’ve forgotten enough about that sentence. So there I was, sitting and hugging myself, not quite believing my reaction to that sentence. I scared myself back there, because I was suddenly, for a moment, overwhelmed by an emotion I didn’t know I was capable of feeling. It was so disturbing that when I dragged myself to sleep at quarter past four in the morning, I was still somewhat numbed emotionally. I was not really sure I slept at all. I do, however, remember tossing and turning all the time, and grabbing Sami to look at the time. The next thing I know, my mother was poking her head through the door, telling me it was time to get up. Now, I’m still feeling a residue of that awful emotion from last night. I know I’m paranoid and morbid, but this is something different. No wonder I’m feeling colder than usual. Thinking of food just makes me want to throw up. But I’m not really sick. We’ll, emotionally, perhaps, but I’ll get over this – and I’ll live.

Really, I just want to escape, though I know escapism is not a good answer to most problems. But most of the time it helps me get through the day. What I am going through right now might only be a molehill compared to other people’s mountains, but I really don’t care. It is selfish, yes, but I’m not a martyr. It is during a time like this that I want to be selfish, bitch at something and nothing in particular, and whine at the unfairness of it all. But I know I would really not do them all, because at the end of the day, after I’ve thought about things some more, I would regret ever losing my composure and what sense I still have left holding me together.

It’s just a phase, yeah, and I’ll move on and live. Tough life.