Scraps

Sometimes the stuck in-between period is just too much. Waiting waiting waiting... Waiting to receive e-mails, waiting for people to make up their mind and finally call me, waiting for the changes to take place, waiting for things to take shape... It seems that my whole life is one waiting period to the next. And then hopefully everything will happen at once, or not. Bah.

One of my stories was published (as I said months ago). My friend A. turned a little poem by me into a comic, that was published too. Now she wants to work on another short story. I am very honoured, but not excited. I am not really here. I am nowhere in particular. I feel like a ghost that exists in the in-between period between then and never and infinity, accidentally trespassing into now from time to time. I feel mostly fleshless. Everything begins from inside to and again returns to me, a cyclic river feeding itself, with no real source and no destination. I feel genderless, fleshless and purposeless. I will eventually feel better, I know. And it's strange because today J. told me some of the sweetest things I have ever heard about my writing style. He is sweetness impersonate sometimes, this being. Still the connection with me and this reality fails miserably. Ha. I don't know if I should laugh, cry or simply stare into nothingness with a thin, amused smile. The anchors are gone and I am floating like a balloon on the ceiling of my sanity. I will eventually find an open window and escape... 

I am just tired and perpetually sad and nothing can fill this emptiness. Too many people leaving the scene at once and me left behind to entertain an audience that grows more uneasy and angry by the minute. I still live on borrowed reality. But fear not; I have medicine. It is called a good crying (which I am afraid I cannot do anymore) and chocolate (which I am sick of). It seems that the situation is serious...