It’s four til four in my clock.
It’s five til my first class.
It’s five thirty before I die yet again.
And I am finally on the verge of crying once more. I am not ashamed to cry mind you. Especially since it has become one of my relievers since high school. Stressed? Cry? Tired? Cry. It’s one simple process which nay do I deny myself of. And here we go typing this, with a tissue roll at clutch. Yes, this is me on the down side of life. There is comfort in those who say that ten years from now, this won’t matter. Thank you. But you see, I live now. And ten years from now, remains ten years from now — never nearer than when you ended the sentence. So yes, ten years from now, this might not matter. I am just not sure if I’d still be alive by then. If I could still be. And ten years from now, if this doesn’t matter, I’ve probably have died because obviously this is traumatizing me, inch by inch, and pain by pain as experience would have it. And so the hope the sentence brings doesn’t make it after the last syllable. It doesn’t even come through.
All I could ever hope for is a four (i.e. an A) in my card, but hope has far gone beyond or behind me (I am really no longer sure). But for this one alone, because this one alone is simply itself, I step down from that delusion and say, anything but one or zero would be much appreciated. Any. Really.
Here comes the first drip. It’s as if my eyes were toasting, “to the people who set it down because they can’t, and to the selves that allow them.”
