[incomplete]

Written on December 19, 2012.

It's six in the a.m. and only hours before I board a flight westbound, but I am in a contemplative mood and running on coffee. For some reason my body (and mind) is under the misconception that humans sleep every 30 hours or so. My days blur into each other, and time feels longer in spite of the winter that casts everything into darkness all day anyway. I am tired, very, very tired and my words creep slowly onto the page, but my mind is a bit of a whirlpool.

First things first, I didn't do as well this semester as I would have liked to. "It's okay," a little voice in my head attempts to console me, but then there is this maddening scream that tells me that I am an idiot and that this is far, far from the best I can spew out. And I'm afraid that the demon under my bed, that keeps telling me that I didn't do all I could, is right. I didn't. What I feel worst about is letting people down. This one professor, who didn't know if Youtube was spelled with a "you", is one of the most awesome people I have ever met, and in return for an awesome semester I made a B-. Here Dr. W, this is how much fuck I give. I don't even know how I'm going to face her now.

Then there is the whole big deal about moving on, growing up, aiming high. Life, at times, feels like a series of random leaps of faith. Though I am convinced, most of the time at least, that this road less traveled I have chosen for my life is the right one, and that I will most likely get a share of good things for the hard work I put in, I can't help but feel jealousy. Jealous of freshmen, of housewives, whose lives seem so predictable, so easy to navigate, to live.

A friend told me today that I should not be afraid to love. It will hurt she said, but worth it. As much as I would like to believe her, I am not convinced.