May 1, 2013: A little bit of hope.  A little bit of trust.  A little bit of something like protectiveness.  That’s the feeling I have right now. There’s a way that describes this feeling.  More or less, it’s the first time I’ve felt this way. 

                Is this what they call lo

                I feel like an secondary student, staying up past midnight to finish an essay.  A mind bending, toe-curling effort to complete the piece of writing on time.

                Without thinking, I let the pen fall from my fingers.  I can’t bring myself to write these kinds of words, not yet.  It still feels too strange. 

May 1, 2013: A little bit of hope.  A little bit of trust.  A little bit of something like protectiveness.  That’s the feeling I have right now. There’s a book that describes this feeling.  More or less, it’s the first time I’ve felt this way. 

Is this what they call lo

I throw the paper and pen aside disconcertingly.  If I were any other person, sleep—sleep would help calm me and rid me of these inexplicable thoughts.  If I could close my eyes peacefully for just one night, I just might be restored the next morning.  But I know very clearly that I have no easy way out of this. 

My feet pat edgily against the floor.  Why, why, why. 

I rub my forehead exasperatedly. 

The empty apartment doesn’t seem to help my restless nature tonight.  I pounce from the chair and begin to pace the undersized room.  My hand travels from my sides to the back of my neck to my waist, trying to liberate my uneasiness. It doesn’t take me more than a few steps to reach from wall to wall but I walk faster and faster until my calves begin to cramp. 

Finally, I collapse onto the bed with an exhale.  My arms widen across the mattress while my legs suspend off the edge, kicking alternatively.  I can’t tell which is worse.  The sleeplessness or these impending emotions.

What is it that is bothering me?  Did I devote too much time at the studio today?  Or were too many hours spent under this candlelight? There’s an immeasurable amount of notions running through my mind. 

I sigh loudly.  One thought leads to another and I begin to think about her.  I wonder if she’s sleeping, or if she’s reading one of her books again.  I wonder if she’s getting along with her grandfather, or if she’s decided to shut herself up in her room.

I wonder if she drinks tea even at this hour. 

I sit up so quickly that the blood rushes to my head and my vision blurs.  But I’ve figured it out.  This anxiety is not because I have too much of anything, but rather because there’s something I’m missing.