i am so blessed...

...that I feel guilty about it. And then I feel guilty about the fact that I can't ever seem to feel happy/contended, despite how blessed I am.
I even feel guilty about the fact that this even feels like a substantial problem for me.
I just need to learn how to "be." Just be.

i wish i wasn't so happy here

That only makes the prospect of moving elsewhere seem even more daunting.
I love [most of] the people I'm around. I love what I'm studying. I love this city. I feel blessed.
But soon, everyone will go in a different direction. And I can't be left standing here. Got to move forward.

a few thoughts

1) Blogging, at least for me, always becomes too "personal," and I can't seem to avoid that. Probably because that's the function of writing, in my opinion...self-expression...whatever needs to surface at the moment...but it's uncomfortable to think about all of that becoming public. On the other hand, restraint is uncomfortable, too. So maybe I should just delete this blog and stick to my journal.
2) Home is never the comfortable haven of downtime I imagine it to be when I'm planning to go for a visit. It's usually ten times more overwhelming than being anywhere else.
3) I had a third thought, but now I'm too tired to remember what it was.
Probably nothing important.
Man...the later you stay awake, the harder it is to make yourself go to bed.
Oh, the final thought: vague, disheartening, typical. For some reason I'm realizing more frequently and affectingly than ever before the terrible fact that I am—we all are—absolutely and terrifyingly alone. At least as far as what goes on internally, and when our souls come face-to-face with that final day. I know believers would bring up God at this point, and I hope that's a reality, but still...to be alone, even in love, even around friends and family, you and I are both irrevocably and forever alone on this earth. Fuck someone, you're still alone. Clumsily grasping at air during what you hope is a meaningful and unifying, authentic conversation. Never fully authentic. Forever alone.
I can't ever show you what's going on in my brain. I can't carry your heart with me in my heart, e.e. cummings. I have only enough room for one, beating, forever beating only a single rhythm. "I am. I am. I am."
Alone.
What the fuck, Sarah. Tangent?
Really, though. These thoughts are really scary if you think about them enough. Which you shouldn't.
But...that is where something like writing comes in...attempts to express, to connect. Art. Creativity. Breaking down boundaries. We try to get closer to "it"—truth, meaning, God, whatever. We try and we have to keep trying.

rollercoaster

One day I'm swimming in optimism, and the next I'm grappling with a pervasive sense of absolute despair. It makes no sense. Maybe it's this phase of uncertainty. No, it's something bigger. I just don't want to deal with it—don't know how.
Internal drama queen.

ignorance is bliss

I do think, I mean I really do believe, that if I were simply oblivious, I would be much more content. I see into things and then have to resist inwardly falling apart. See into people. Nothing is more terrifying.
I'm making about as much sense as T.S. Eliot.