This is how an angel cries
I blame it on my own sick pride
Blame it on my A.D.D. baby
I keep being told that I've changed.
Yet nothing has.
No changes in my appearance, no change in habits, no change in personality.
Only my location and my occupation have changed.
I still keep an eye out. I still watch everything that anyone important writes.
Just because I don't have my own personal commentary on it doesn't mean it hasn't registered or been acknowledged.
(Like this: I know you see what I write, but nothing is ever said. It doesn't cause my belief in that to waver any.)
You're still seeing me; I only look different because I'm farther away.
I'm sorry I have things I have to do if I don't want to end up in some dead-end job or unhappy with my life at 30 to the extent that I off myself. I already want to do it enough now.
I'm sorry for having a life that doesn't revolve around everyone else's.
I'm sorry that my purpose on this planet isn't to be what everyone else wants me to be.
I'm sorry I can't be everywhere else at once, or -more specifically- where you want me to be.
And even saying that, this isn't for anyone specific. This is enough to get under my skin because it's coming from everywhere.
It should be known by now that I'm not the type to just forget people. I hold grudges too well to not have better memory.
It just makes me sad because it becomes clearer over time that it isn't as apparent as I would have hoped.
I'm just fucking sad anyway.
I'm leaving for Wisconsin in less than 8 hours with a car that's in questionable shape to go to a job I have no idea whether I'm going to be able to do or not.
I'm fucking scared, too. Terrified.
And these things, along with the nightmares I've been having, are the reassurance I'm leaving with.
If this isn't a test of will, I don't want to see what would be.
