On the first of October

More and more of my letters are addressed to the months of the year, and I haven’t decided if I find it funny or sad.

As life takes me away into a situation I know I wasn’t ready for, I get lonelier. My phone book is filling up but none of them are people I can call at the proverbial 3AM. My hands have started looking for addresses to write to or paper to write on but I have found none. And so I write to time.

I give myself numbers to hold tight to. Two weeks, and you can share your salty thoughts. Five months, and you can write down a milestone. A year, and you can say you’ve done enough. I give myself time, and I tell myself it’s just time. It’s just weeks. It’s just months. You’ve done it twenty-one times, at least.

It’s still not enough to compose me. My life seems split unevenly between things that matter and waiting for the things that matter to find me. Or love me back.

I am having trouble being loved back.

What hurts is trying to make up for it by giving love even more and what hurts is I don’t have an idea if it’s working. All I feel is lonelier, and emptier. All I start to think of is maybe October has always been dark blue to me.

Despite the love I used to find in October and despite someone always wanting to hold my hand, October is dark, unfriendly blue. It is the onset of lonelier things, of personal winters. It is the recurring question of whether or not I can live inside my own head for much longer.

Loves, it is so damn lonely inside my head.

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