It does, but it's the goddamn truth. --Sahana, my sharer in emptying our souls in blogs.

I hate when waiting is so excruciating that every minute feels like 10 hours, and every hour feels like a decade, or century, or not even that. Just some immeasurable amount of time that you can almost feel going by, because the friction of it is making your body boil, but that anticipation makes you shake, and you just want to implode but you have to keep. on. waiting. And you never know how it's going to end, but you know the slight feeling of emptiness you are going to feel afterwards, even if it ends up good, because despite all that relief you still remember that you had to have that awful feeling of worry, for however long it lasted.

I'm shaking too hard to write, so I'll copy and paste some lyrics.

I wake alone
and pretend that I am finally home.

The room is littered
with her books
and notebooks I imagine what they say, like,
"Shoo fly don't bother me."
I can hardly get myself out of the bed
for fear of never lying in this bed again.

Oh Christ, I'm not that desperate.
Oh no, oh God.
I am.

How'd I end up here to begin with?
I don't know.
Why do I start what I can't finish?
Oh please don't barrage me
with the questions to all those lovely answers.
My ego's like my stomach,
it keeps shitting what I feed it.

Or maybe I don't want to finish anything anymore.

-A portion of "The Recluse" by, Cursive