Friday, April 23, 2010

The Ache (83/90)

I've started this post over at least four times in the past two days.

On these days­­­—weeks—I long only for the journal; the smeared ink on my palm and the ache between my thumb and forefinger. The ink reminds me that I’m writing; the ache confirms there is something worth writing.

Even when it takes pages and pages to realize what that is exactly.


I've been wondering how many times I can rewrite the same thing; if I can say it differently enough to fool you, and myself, into thinking that it is, in fact, different. 

It’s not. It hasn’t been for the past several weeks. And I’m not sure that it will be any time soon. This isn’t something that I can rush through.

It is the best of times and the worst of times. I was only prepared for the first part.

It’s hard at this point not to assess the past four years of my life. I’m looking around at what I’m walking away with, and what I’m not.


My life, on the whole, is not what I thought it would be. And each new realization brings its own pangs of disappointment.

I thought sure that I’d be one of the girls engaged; planning my wedding upon graduation. In reality, I’ve gone all four years without a college boyfriend. The processing on that fact stops there, though, lest I drive myself mad.

It’s been a much lonelier journey than I anticipated. While I’ve made some lovely associates over the past two years, I don’t have the Sex and The City clan; that tight-knit group of college friends that your supposed to share your life with every step of the way. And I can’t help but wonder whom I’ll call when it’s all over and there’s a step worth sharing.

I’m not in love with my major choice of study, which I realized too late in the game. But that’s turning out to be less of a problem than I anticipated; I’ve just got to get in
where I fit in. It’s finding the fit that’s a bit of a challenge. 

It is exciting at times, but angst-filled mostly. If there’s one mistake I’ve learned not to make again, it’s to build these expectations of what life will be and instead just let it be.

In the meantime, I find solace in the writing; the smeared ink on my palm and the ache in my fingers.

 There’s something to be found I’m sure, in the turning of the pages. 


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