Sitting here, starting this at 6 am, watching the sun rise above the elementary school in my backyard. I can see the rats scampering across the alley and the "unmarked" police car that hovers in the corner of the playground most nights. But for some reason it gives me more feelings of unrest, less feelings of comfort.
I've been trying really hard lately to actually do something with myself. I know, i know, this sounds completely ridiculous, but I have been making a point out of leaving the house at least once a day, even when i feel like doing absolutely nothing but attaching my sweaty ass to the futon downstairs and watch harry potter all day. I keep telling myself "you have to make your summer worthwhile. you have to make something of your life, and there is no way that will happen just sitting at home." But I'm coming to find that that theory is incredibly wrong. It is when I am meddling around running pointless, stupid errands, that i feel like my life lacks the most beauty and love.
Last night I got pretty sick. Out of nowhere I got incredibly hot and couldn't catch my breath for the life of me. I eased my way to the bathroom (the good ol' puke paranoia came in handy for something, finally!) and spat up. In the past 15 years I have never spat up. Thrown up, yes, but spat up? no. So here i am so far beyond nauseous and i'm spitting it up little by little. This time on the bathroom floor made me realize though- maybe the running around, constantly trying to BE somewhere, is really getting my nowhere except back to the hospital. What if the place where i really needed to be has been right here, resting, sleeping?
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