six in the morning / by IKB

It is past six in the morning. I went to bed around 2 in the morning only to find myself waking up precisely three hours later. I staid in bed for an hour, thinking. After an hour, I got out of bed and made my way to the computer lab. To my luck, I can still log onto the school’s network. So here I am.

I don’t know what to do with my life, perhaps that thing, which I have feared since I can remember, may occur, i.e., ending up homeless. Life seems to have slowed down drastically for me, nonetheless it is spiriling out of my hands. I am exhausted. I am not eating very well nor sleeping for that matter. I see myself curling up in a ball in some dark corner in every scenario and simply wasting away. I know that I am wasting away, I have been doing so for the past two months.

Last night Sarah said that it was good to have me back. I responded, “But you know that I’m not really back.” And it is true, we both agreed. Although I am here, at St. John’s, I am not really here. Whatever I was, whatever person I was here before this past summer, he is no more. I do not know who I am anymore. I am just forever thinking about depressing things, i.e., death. So, although I am at St. John’s, I find myself feeling like some part of me did not make the voyage with me to Santa Fe. Perhaps that part of me is still left, perhaps in DC. Perhaps it is dead. And dead things are not recoverable.

Something is missing, that old desire for … I don’t know exactly what it was, but there was a desire. I am mostly fatigued. Life is not proceeding in any way that I can consider positive.

Couples break up all the time, yes I know. But then again, how many people do what I did? How many people are not really given a chance to do… whatever it is that must be done? I don’t know. I am confused.

Last night I fell asleep on the ride home. I remember Sarah calling my name, asking me about Proust while I thought about how many times I had travelled the distance between Albuquerque and Santa Fe and vice versa in the past half year. Perhaps she and Jessica talked about me and my problem. I don’t know. Somehow everything was better when I was aslseep. I felt nothing. I was nothing.

I wish life could stop, that I could be given time to step outside it and attempt to mend whatever it is that needs to be mended. To repair that bit of me that seems to be broken; to lay the suspicion that it is dead would prove somewhat pessimistic. Maybe I wish to deceive myself. A long interlude is desperately called for.

Somehow the philosophical conversations I have had recently regarding Aristotle have proven helpful, provisionally at least. Yet I cannot help but return to that mind set where I seem to be stuck in. Honestly I do not know. What is wrong with me? I don’t need a response, although I don’t have an answer. Yes, what is wrong with me in particular? Where is this God that everyone speaks off and praises to the sky? Where is he? Why does he not appear now, instantly out of thin air and place his hand on my shoulder. If I am a child of God, why does he not come to me now in my hour of need, when all hope seems to spill from me. Am I to believe that it is all a fictitious lie? Where are you God? Show yourself to me. Please.

I don’t know why I left St. John’s. I never loved it here, but I have never loved it anywhere except in Oregon but even then. I just … so why? Here I had some comfort. In my moments of sadness, I could always go to the library and sleep and forget. But I left it. Now I regret it … because … because now is a time when I desperately require something of that sort. Something that can consume me and erase me as a person, as an individual. Something that does not have the comfort of a mother but sooths nonetheless. It is a type of life that at this moment seems to be enviable.

So why do I cry? What is to be gained by it. It only enhances my emotional distress and my physical fatigue.
I love how the words flow out of me. As if I actually have something to say, as if I have the capacity to write and not be a pathetic writer. Everyone seems to have a talent. What is my talent? I don’t seem to have one and it is depressing I must confess. I cannot paint, for it would be lovely to be able to put my affliction into that medium; to be able to express myself in an ‘artistic’ manner. Oh God, why?

The silence is palpable. How do human beings manage to live life? It simply overwhelms me. I don’t know what to do anymore. All I seem to know, if anything, is that I am in love with someone that for all intents and purposes does not love me. I remember some time ago, writing a love note to someone I shall not name. He took it and showed it to his friends. I am sure they laughed, not at the note itself, but at the idea that I could love anyone. It hurt and it was sad. But it doesn’t compare one bit to this.