another several days

Had passed since she last wrote anything. She was annoyed. She felt blocked. Another thing she started and hadn't finished. A quitter again. Again. Shit. She felt upset, disappointed. Work was getting busy, and she felt tension-filled. Unsure, that just made things even more weird and stressed her out. She tried to play it off and be cool, but she still felt unsure, taking direction from others was almost like understanding shorthand for the first time, and she was trying not to scream or sound stupid. It was a lot to take in.

Then there was home. More madness. Her hair and skin were feeling it. She decided to pull out a journal and write the following:

"I am a fucking guest that helps pay the rent. That is what I am. What I've allowed myself to become. Because I have obviously nothing to offer. Am lazy and superficial. Walked down the street and found I have no home. No one to come home to. Don't even have a pet. Must pack my shit and move on. There's nothing for me here. I have been as supportive as I could be and have stood to the side and kept on a brave face as time passes me.

I cannot relate to people. People bore and puzzle me. They don't hold any excitement. There are no promises made or kept. No one expects to follow through. I am cursed with loneliness and without the social ease that others have. I am lost. A ship without a rudder."

She turned a page, suddenly inspired to write a list:

"Tomorrow," she continued, "plastic bins. Hold what's in drawers. Start saving to start storing. Remove books and store."

She didn't think for a second why she had a diverted thought. There was a tougher thing to write, and that was probably why.

She turned the page, sighed, and the rest came flowing out:

"I thought if I died would it matter. To most, no. To whomever I'm a floating memory or image. I beg for punishment or resolution and all I find is indifference, scorn or boredom. Tediousness magnified. They say I can't see a project to the end and they're right. I'm simply not as good and disciplined as the others.

I am a failure.

An utter complete failure.

And it doesn't matter if I try or have faith.

It's unimportant.
I'm unimportant.
The world will go on.
With or without me. It will still spin to oblivion."

She thought of her walk in the middle of the night, feeling sorry for herself, letting the anger dispel from her. Each block brought her closer to quiet. To isolation. Less people on the street. For once she did not care.

As she walked, the air got cooler and cooler. She had been hoping it wouldn't, as she had wanted to stay out as late as she could. She wondered if she heard a footstep but would not turn around. She would continue forward, face her fears, she thought. As she approached a block, it looked like it was a step back in time. The block was a private block, and it looked like another time. She took a gasp, and realized she was alone. Or was she. She felt someone watching. She looked around, nothing. A feeling of something. Unfamiliar. Strange. Suddenly, a cab appeared, coming down the block. She flagged it down, with a sigh. She got in and the cab made a U turn and took off with her in it. She settled back in her seat when the cab passed the street she had crossed before coming to this part of the quiet neighborhood. It was a man, in a greyish hood, undescript, as if looking, peering down the block where she was, as if he could see that far, and just realizing that she was gone, no longer there. He seemed to pause as he crossed the street, almost as if, there's no point going down that block. She got a feeling that he was looking for her. She wondered, was he Death? Her death? Her oblivion?

She wrote in her notepad:

"Death followed me. I did not embrace it. As with all things, I jumped in a cab and went home. There is an emptiness. Silence. Beauty. Decay. Nothing lasts. Nothing stays the same. People move on, grow old and die. That is it. Most don't lead an extraordinary life."

She thought about her dream of acting. She paused, and wrote: "But oh, to live an extraordinary life. To be inspired by beauty, youth, anything would be exciting and lovely. I know that there is nothing but wasting away. To kiss what is essentially dying flesh and not be revolted is simply...maybe that's the point of vampire films. To be dead yet live forever. To not fear death because it already came and yet still the body is animated, still dreams, still desires. Endless death. What is the point of that? Never having rotting flesh or the feeling of decay? The stench of death? How do vampires smell? Like old flowers? I don't know. I rage yet there's nothing to rage at. An empty shell struggling to find some filling.

The holidays approach and I'm nowhere closer to finding inner peace and personal satisfaction. I still feel at war. Creativeness dulled. All I get is the faint smell of vinegar. Did some spill? Time, perhaps, to let go of some furniture."

She shivered slightly. Before she knew it, she was home, paid the cab driver, thanked him, and walked briskly to her front door. She was home. Or at least, what felt safe and familiar. She sighed, and once in the apartment, locked the door behind her, got out of her clothes and climbed into bed, falling asleep within minutes.