Loneliness
I'm generally a pretty social person, and sometimes I enjoy a little solitude. But sometimes I hate being alone: The apartment is empty and no amount of music or background noise can fill it. The cats seem to sense my mood and retreat into corners or under beds. The silence is stifling.
Thoughts fill my head, worries chase each other 'round and 'round like puppies chasing their tails. It's hours yet until Russ comes home, and it's like Bryan doesn't live here anymore. I feel like if I don't hear another human voice I'll burst.
I try to distract myself, with books, or movies, or WoW, or projects, but the restlessness just builds. I feel like pacing. These are the times when I'm a caged bird. Wings fluttering at unseen bars.
I know that's just my body--same time of the month, how typical of me, how boring to blame it on hormones, but it's a pattern. I could cry, and sometimes I do. There's no rhyme or reason, just emotions flickering like candlelight, spilling like water, like tears, like sand through my fingers.
Oddly enough, sometimes writing helps. Or cooking. Not drawing--I frustrate myself too much. Same with sewing. My fingers fumble and I rage at each mistake made. There's something about writing and cooking, if I'm not too deep in self-pity for any kind of action. My thoughts focus and I lose the restlessness. Time skips by. I don't feel the loneliness hanging over me like a shroud.
Thoughts fill my head, worries chase each other 'round and 'round like puppies chasing their tails. It's hours yet until Russ comes home, and it's like Bryan doesn't live here anymore. I feel like if I don't hear another human voice I'll burst.
I try to distract myself, with books, or movies, or WoW, or projects, but the restlessness just builds. I feel like pacing. These are the times when I'm a caged bird. Wings fluttering at unseen bars.
I know that's just my body--same time of the month, how typical of me, how boring to blame it on hormones, but it's a pattern. I could cry, and sometimes I do. There's no rhyme or reason, just emotions flickering like candlelight, spilling like water, like tears, like sand through my fingers.
Oddly enough, sometimes writing helps. Or cooking. Not drawing--I frustrate myself too much. Same with sewing. My fingers fumble and I rage at each mistake made. There's something about writing and cooking, if I'm not too deep in self-pity for any kind of action. My thoughts focus and I lose the restlessness. Time skips by. I don't feel the loneliness hanging over me like a shroud.