Anyway, the backs of my eyeballs hurt, which I forgot was possible. All my muscles are heavy with weariness. But I am here, trying to summon some kind of original thought, to sum up the fulfillment of my days in fresh, vaunted words.
It isn't working very well.
My mother emails me today, "Are you okay?" Last night on the phone she heard my exhaustion, though I hadn't said anything. I can feel my fuse is shorter, my emotions less stable. I am not myself. And yet I assure her that I am well, just "overloaded." She tells me to go home and sleep and instead here I am writing.
The past week has been such an oddity. I came out of CGI U on a complete high, and then flattened myself with the flu. Since that sickness, I have been unable to summon true passion for anything. Every class, every meeting is a box to be checked. The days have been punctuated with moments of laughter, with deep appreciation for those around me, with recognition for the beauty of these spring days. The perfection though, eludes me. I hate that I pass the days like this, that I wear them into the ground like stomping out embers from a dying campfire, that all I want to do is to spread my limbs over warm granite cliffs on the edge of an alpine lake and feel the world turning around me. That I want to sit quietly and not worry about the time going by me, not think about the next thing.
My life is so rich, and so full - so why this emptiness?