The sun is out, shining its brightest. It’s 72 degrees in New York City. I’m sitting in a room full of people taking exams.
I am paying attention to them, and paying no attention to them.
I like my interactions with these people. Some of them I won’t see ever again, and I’m alright with that. But why am I here?
Because I need to make ends meet, so I’m working on a Saturday. At my third job.
I could just complain more and blah blah blah, but I’m honestly just very lethargic. Days like these are when I wish I were just laying down on my bed, reading a book, sleeping, just laying down, catering to my tired-ness while I waste away.
All I ever wanted was to be loved and Be accepted for who I am, no matter how broken and screwed up I am. I’m working on it, I promise. Everyone just leaves because they automatically think people should be finished and shiny. They forget that if you’re human, you’re a constant work of art, an oil painting that can numerously be modified and changed and improved and destroyed. And destroyed.
But hey, I don’t know how to deal with myself either.
I feel like checking out sometimes.
I heard it’s surreal. I heard it’s peaceful.
I want that.
But not today, it seems.