I should be writing Delivering Hope right about now. I’m 30k words in, which is great. It’s far further along than I thought I would be after everything. But I’m not writing right now.
Instead, I’m wondering about humanity. Yesterday was Friday 13th. Bad luck according to many, but I don’t think luck had much to do with a lot of the horror of yesterday.
The lights in Paris are out.
And the rest of the world is sharing its grief in France’s national colours. Such is the sadness of our hearts.
I hate waking after a night out. The light hitting my eyes is filled with self-loathing and defeat, a thousand pains and what-ifs and whys. I hate waking to find my bed empty because you’re not there after dreams where we’re talking. We reminisce.
I hate waking with the wish that I hadn’t left the house, ruined myself with alcohol and guilt. But why do I feel guilty when you’re the one who did it? This guilt that I feel when every guy hits on me or people try to get me to let some nice fella buy me a drink or take me home. This horrible, revolting guilt… like I’m being unfaithful to you. And I never was.
It’s nearly Christmas and I don’t feel Christmassy at all. Maybe that’s partly the bleak outlook everyone has right now or maybe it’s the fact that I still can’t have a night out that doesn’t involve breaking down and crying on somebody at some point.
There’s also the other thing that I’m getting quite sick of. Maybe most girls would enjoy it, but I don’t. I never have and round about now it’s just making the things going around my head worse.
Maybe you even already guessed that with my lack of being able to deal with something as innocent as a kiss. I don’t know.
