Bloomberg recently published a scathing report on Rutgers’ spending on its athletic program and its effect on academic departments. The administration has consistently increased the size and scope of these programs, despite its claims about budget crises that they have used to justify wage…
I should not feel the need to commit suicide from a sheet of paper, but I do. 10 sentences to decimate whatever self confidence, whatever projected self confidence I have. Decimated by what I can’t do rather than empowered by what I can. I wish I could just go to sleep and not wake up.
There is no cause for alarm, just a vent, without the rage. An exhale.
I really miss love. I had it once and it slipped away; not bitter, not angsty it was bound to fall away, but I miss the feeling. The rush of passion just from something little she does, unintentional. The whispers that no one hears and the smiles they can’t understand. The power to say ‘yes, I will take that bullet; all the bullets.”
Apparently, my problem is I’m not supposed to look for it. It will find me. I should cast my fate into the wind and keep eyes, hopes non-wandering. But how can I? Like an addict I have been brushed with love once and crave it, desire it, need it more than my willpower can withstand. It floods my mind when left with its thoughts, alone. It aches my heart. Like an addict I am swamped by a detox, but one that does not grow or fade; a constant emptiness that can be pushed aside with distractions upon distractions, but only for a while. Eventually I am left with my thoughts and again it creeps in. Just one thought. A second. Third, fourth, fifth; an avalanche of loneliness, of longing. Occasionally distractions cannot bear the weight and it pushes towards the open, bursting into life, bitter life.
"No, I’m fine."
"Just a bad day."
Damage control and once again I am in distracted apathy.
So now I’m home, alone. A thought that used to appease is now disheartening. Even the family can’t help, they like to yell. It is never good coming home, no warmth here just freckles of disappointment or clashing views or coming together to look together. “I love you,” casual; words. Do I miss them while away? I don’t think so. Am I thankful? Of course, but I don’t feel the fire I should. Thinking now I don’t know if I consider it a home, or a house. No resentment, no hate, nothing bad just nothing I guess. I really miss love.
So here I go onward constantly searching for something that can only find me. Pointless, maybe, but I can’t sit idly by or I think I’d be consumed with it.