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doesn’t deserve a title

i used to long for solitude. growing up in a small house that was always full of people, hours of alone time to relax and reflect is hard to come by. now i live a life of quietness. the only people i get to talk to are my 2 year old toddler and, when the mood fits, my husband. my social interaction is limited to the casual greetings of neighbors i pass by when i go to the mailbox or the hellos and goodbyes of cashiers before and after i swipe my credit card to pay for what i bought. the highlight of my day is the 2 hour reruns of the West Wing that i record in the morning and watch once my toddler takes a nap in the afternoon. my day starts and finishes mechanically and by the time that i should be sleeping, i drag my carcass of a body to the table and force it to study anatomy and physiology.

why is it easier to write pathetic and crappy thoughts than sentimental and joyful ones? maybe it’s my love for Dickenson and the lack of drama in my life. or maybe that’s just how i was built – to romanticize sadness and to forget happier days; welcome to my world.

it’s not as if there weren’t good days in between these entries, there were a lot actually, thank you dear fates for them. but why would i open this page and write on those days when i’m too busy enjoying life?

no. i write when i’m lonely. that’s just how it is. i live with it. that’s just how it is.

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