"I may never be happy, but tonight I am content." The words of my favorite author echoed in my head on a constant loop as I crawled into bed at 6:00 am, just as the sun was rising. Staying up until morning with a rum and coke, cold cheese pizza, and friends brought too much attention to the reality I'd been trying to avoid for weeks.  When I am in despair, I always turn to worn pages of Sylvia Plath's writing for comfort. The dull aching in my chest halts and I feel less alone. I feel like I can relate to her more than anyone, and that is a sad thought in itself.

This morning when I woke up my soul felt hollow. It felt half within me and half somewhere else, distorted and stretched to both places like silly putty. Things are not as black-and-white or this-and-that as people seem to believe. There is a lot of distance between both sides of the spectrum, and the effort it takes to reach one end is a rollercoaster of emotional distress. As cliched as I feel thinking things like this, I can't help but believe that I'm on a journey now. My focus is turned completely on my inner self and general well being, something that I don't think has ever happened for me. There are times (listening to Sufjan, walking against the brisk January wind alone, the last ten seconds of consciousness before drifting off to sleep) when I feel a tightness in my throat and tears brimming around my eyes, but I believe that's part of the healing process. My existence often times feels pointless, dreary, and unimportant, and that's something that I'd like to fix.