Today was a horrible Friday. I skipped World Literature. My essay has not been written or submitted yet. I have my Romantic Literature essay due on Wednesday, with my final response on Friday. Then, on Monday, April 4th, I have my last essay due for Victorian Literature. Delaying the submission of my first essay has evidently screwed up the time and energy I have to prepare, plan and write the other two. Nevertheless, I suppose I will manage, somehow. Weekends aren't exactly in my favour when it comes to school work. Or, to be honest with myself, I don't seem to be in favour of school work during weekends. This very incident proves such a resistance: I shouldn't be sitting on the computer right after arriving home. But, nevertheless, here I am.
The horrible Friday consisted of a horrible night. I don't know what kept me up last night, but I was wide awake. My own stupidity kept me awake, really. I drank a large coffee with a limited amount of milk earlier yesterday. I had the intention of keeping myself wide awake and finishing that darn World Literature essay overnight. I wanted to submit the thing before the weekend came. Well, that certainly didn't happen! I stayed up and I talked to a number of friends on FB chat, but I certainly didn't touch my bag at all. That, indeed, was an awful mistake. Obviously.
Sleep deprived, I somehow mustered up the courage to get out of bed. I made it to class only 10 minutes late. I say "only" because I didn't feel like attending school today, like really. The happy thing about class was that I got an 89% on my second quiz in the course, and Professor Terretta remembered my name. After class, I bought myself an XL coffee from Tim Horton's with an apple fritter, of which, I didn't pay a penny. I didn't eat anything else today. Really, I don't have much of an appetite.
From the moment I went to the library until the last few minutes, Krishu and I "talked" about a whole bunch of exhilirating topics. You know, how much we disagree with each others' perspectives. We threatened our relationship a handful of times. And, I don't know, it was the typical fully passionate discussion. Passive really. I mean, we were sitting behind computer screens. Passive...
...So passive that I skipped class and I cried in public and it was an awful, four hour long mess. I am glad now that the mess was cleared up (at least mood wise) with the vision of Faith sitting in an empty "71" headed home. She was such a great person to talk to at the time because she understood a great deal of what I could be feeling. She's happy and fun too. I think that was a message: I will be okay. But you know something? This time around, I'm actually quite scared. I don't know what I did wrong and I don't blame him for anyway he offended or hurt me in return because everything was out of heated passion. We were absolutely pissed off. But the mere fact that we can become so bothered with each other and a mere discussion can blow totally out of proportion, only further suggests that there is a problem. A rift. A growing, unbearable and painful rift that is stripping us further apart. I don't know what will become of us at this point in time. I feel a lot, but nothing entirely explicable. The food I am depriving myself gives the inner feeling a physical dimension. Hunger. That's all. I know that I should eat something, but I'm really not in the mood. Maybe later. Besides, shedding a few pounds won't hurt either. I only wish I knew what I said specifically. Or what he doesn't like about me. Or how this is going to work out if must break up. I don't know what to say. I'm not numb, but in a way, I'm weak. I feel so weak.
The weather is sunny, but the temperature is freezing. Very cold. The breeze encapsulates exactly how I feel inside. Gothic. The sun is going down now, and I feel like I could ignore the whole world and remain in a dark corner of my room. Unfortunately, I can't. There are two more weeks of classes (or something like that), with all three assignments and a ton of exams around the immediate corner. I've got to face upto reality now. This dying relationship. These parents that expect more than I can offer. A degree that is not mine. Payments that I cannot make. A heart just panging with hunger. I wake up with my bladder burning in pain. My piss smells. I'm probably sick. All I ever know how to do is write about it. Some think I write because I want attention. I think if I showed this to anyone, they would think I was definitely seeking attention with my actions too. A blog? Why would anyone want a blog to resort their private thoughts to? Especially when a perfectly good, pink journal is waiting with half of its pages totally empty. The place where private thoughts are supposed to go. Burn-able. Rip-able. Smell-able. Where the ink smudges at the places where tear drops drip. Where mistakes are not deleted, but merely crossed off. There is evidence that the writing process is not perfect, and yet consoling. The other half of the little book's pages are filled with endless thoughts, contemplations, and frustrations. Nothing is ravishing or deep. They just exist to replicate what would have been a friend's mind bank. One day I can carry and show it to you, the reader. If I die, my book will continue to exist.
And yet, I still choose the blog. What does this imply? Why do we write? Communication to self, or communication to others? Or is there a difference at all? What if communicating with others was communicating with ourselves? Hm!
I feel that whether we are in a relationship or not, I will need to learn how to communicate in this way again. To myself, that is. People don't seem to comprehend that this is a way that people rationalize and organize their thoughts/feelings. Hm. I can't survive without it. Really.