I haven’t been writing. Not as much as I usually do, at least. I’m afraid that, if I write, then I must think, and there are things I’d rather not think about. There was a point in time where it was fun, amusing, almost better to get stuck in my head, to loop around my thoughts and introspect to the point of madness. But nowadays, it is easier to turn outwards. I can watch comedies, play pinball, drink boozy shakes and sing loudly in the back of cars to indie pop I listened to in middle school. And I can do all of that without thinking.
What I am trying not to face: a lurking purplish abyss. It sits in my chest. It rises at the prospect of change. Of goodbye’s, packed bags, new cities, separation, winters, fluorescent lights. Of time passing by too slowly. I see myself trudging through snow, finding pockets of peace, but also succumbing to the abyss. I don’t want to, clearly, and most of the time, I don’t, but it’s growing louder. This, now I know, is the cost of attachment, of love, of care, of connection, of all the soft squishy-icky-gooey things of cotton-candy existence. Indifference renders you apathetic. But things akin to the four-lettered-word, they’ll leave you with every variation of human emotion. (That, I guess, is the price we pay.)