It's difficult to reconcile yourself to silences when you're young and every bone in your body is screaming out life. You're somewhere between not-too-young and not-too-old; this is what they call the "prime" ( of what, though?). You're supposed to conquer everything, not stand here and watch it fly past you. It's difficult, and it takes patience you do not possess because you lost it in the struggle against a world that refused to stop. So you had to move, because there is power in numbers and you were truly defeated in this one instance. And then, well, it's unexciting really but there are times you begin to confirm when you have to. If you stop and think about it for a moment, if you have solitude- it's not gratitude you feel. It's this immense irritation about why the world isn't moving, because inside your mind time is racing. And just yesterday you wanted it to stop.
You wonder if this is some sort of cheap trick fate wants to play, since the world didn't stop when you wished for it to, and now it won't move. Murphy's law, they call it.
It's always the little things. Does it really matter how quiet it is as long as there's music and a cigarette? How the absence of those two makes everything worse is something you will never quite understand; what makes sense, though, is the cold. And the heightened senses. You'd blindfold yourself and spin around just to feel like you're moving, since tequila waved goodbye ages ago. But that's just wishful thinking. There's work to do, papers to write, expectations to fulfill. The only thing you're allowed to do is sit in your corner of the room, twiddle your thumbs and type out twenty-something handwritten pages. And then write some more. And work a little more.
It's always, always a battle. The whole universe seems to think you're good enough, but are you really? Are you good enough for yourself? Is it ever enough?
And more importantly, what happens if you stop?