So much for pathos.

I’m in a spiral going south. My summer vacation is nearing its end, and even though it has been a decent summer, it brings with it a feeling of inefficacy. No matter how much time you’re given, it’s never enough for you to accomplish all the things you saw yourself fulfilling – maybe just because your list of infinite goals keeps growing as the time span widens. But now, as I see the finish line right in front of me, and I look simultaneously forward and back, I’m overcome with a sense of deprivation. I have tried hard this summer, tried hard to accomplish something – growth perhaps – but as I stand here, I’m not sure if anything has changed substantially. I’m proud of myself in some areas whilst hitting myself on the head in others. And that’s just about the way it’s always been. I have been more responsible with regards to my future than ever, yet that’s the one thing that seems to cost me dearly, while it has never seemed a deciding factor on my possibilities back when I only looked forward to the next five minutes.

Sorry, this is probably just going to be a self-rant post. I’m looking forward to the coming semester. I need that schedule to guide me through my days. I need to feel like I’m part of something bigger than the collective heartbreak that is the great sad sigh of the dying wind in late summer nights.

While at my mother’s birthday, my sister saw my tweet from last week, “remind me not to mix love & coffee”, and looked at me quizzically, quickly turning her tone into one of sympathy, trying to get me to open up. But who wants to open up a fresh wound? Just because a heart is broken does not mean that you have to get every layperson’s opinion on how to fix it. Luckily I’m trained in avoidance and lying, and I quickly retracted myself from the situation. And it didn’t come up again, though I’m sure she’s keeping it in mind for a phone call.

I just don’t know what to tell anybody who asks. It’s my life over and over again, and yet I haven’t come up with any explanation. How do you explain the pain of love that’s not there, when it never was? It’s not even an amputated heart, whose echo I still hear from inside. It’s something much more vague. It’s a piece of music you play to yourself, and when you finally want to play it for the world, there are no more pianos anywhere. 

I guess sometimes there are just no instruments to realise the tune in your heart. And sometimes there’s no end.

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