life is comprised of goodbyes. and then the time in-between the farewell and the reunion. which is called waiting. always waiting.
i’m sick. sick of the frosted trees and the ground without snow and pencils and tasks and my own stupid unenthusiasm. of being without a family and a home and the people i love who live not. with. me. these are typical feelings. the solution presents itself the same way every time; not in the desire to run towards something warm and welcoming, but away. away! away to anywhere that is unfamiliar and different where maybe a sort of compromise can be found. where i will have removed myself enough as to no longer have any feelings of attachment at all. but this is silly. and i can’t do anything but stay put.