Everything's moving too fast, and at the same time too slow.
I have 10 days before I leave.
Am I fully packed? No. Am I fully equipped? No. Do I have any money? No.
And still no job! I'm going to have to cram everything, and hope that I can pull this year off. I'm trying to stifle my own doubt, but it is ever persistent.
I pace this house, restless, conversing with myself. Shouting, scratching, carving ideas into blank rivers of paper, and I can't make sense of these stories; they fluently flow into each other, carefully meandering into the question of why.
I'm aware that this section of life is going to end soon. The vow of silence, of wearing plain clothes, no make up, no smiles, the exile. I'm going to have to be someone now. A job...progression. Interaction...relationships. Literature, fashion, beauty...money. Challenges...JOY.
I find this highly overwhelming as I have built a very comfortable relationship with myself now, and the idea of letting others in and crowding this relationship is alarming.
I tell myself it's going to be ok; there's nothing here anymore. Life is outside of this box, and so is fortune.
A very small part of me doesn't want to go.
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