I'm four years old. Or I'm a man. Or I am missing a social interaction chip. Whatever it is, I have great difficulty articulating my emotions. My feelings of fear and anxiety and anger simmer dangerously till the moment of release--the point at which I get a tingling in my nose, my face flushes, and a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I was a monster yesterday. The positive, carpe diem -esque spin on my imminent departure was temporarily subsumed by sadness, premature nostalgia, and fear--an incredibly juvenile, anticipatory fear of leaving everyone I love.
I only bare the raw, vulnerable, unattractive part of my soul to those who endure and accept me.So, last night, instead of enjoying what little time I have with one of my favorites, I spent the evening brooding, constantly on the verge of tears, angry at him and the world.
And then I got angry at myself for wasting one day worrying about my limited days. It's an endless, self-destructive cycle, all created in my own head. I really need a new hobby.
I promised myself (and my mother), I would chronicle my adventures daily, and write an entry in this blog everyday till I left the city. This one is solely a confession, an admission of my anguish. I write better than I speak, and so, I'm writing my heart out (literally; sorry, I don't know what's going on with the clichéd idioms and metaphors today).
I already miss so much this city, a place in which zephyrs smell of pizza at 9 AM, inhabitants walk together but in isolation, and sounds drown out the pain of your own murky thoughts. I already miss so much you, and you, and you, and definitely you.
End of Day 2
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