by Natalie Robin
Clearly, I stopped writing. I’ve been consumed by these really strange and ephemeral sensations that some might call emotions. I call them annoying. My annoyances. Some people are good at harnessing their sadness and making art out of it. I am only good at things when I’m happy and needless to say, I haven’t been.
Of course it’s about love because I don’t know that there is much that isn’t; be it direct or a result of a result. As much as I’d like and have tried to believe I am alien to this world and empty of foible, I can’t falsify myself in saying that I am not turning in my bed at night over menial things. I’ve finally learned after twenty-some odd years of life that I too cannot escape the most messy feelings known to man, as hard as I’ve tried. I will eventually pen it in, in my own encyclopedia of “learning experiences”, but for now I’m too resentful to have to read it more than once.