Lately, it got me feeling restless. Like I got a giant clock, haunting each of my step with it’s loud constant tick. A looming presence to remind me that my time is running out.
Because I count my days differently and while you can tell me that I got time, that February is still a long way down the road, it doesn’t change the ominous truth that I only have less than two weeks before reality comes crashing in.
And I’m reluctant to leave, more than I have ever been. There is no excitement, no rush to go despite the awaiting presence of those that had become my anchor, no haste to finally be in the embrace of my people, and none of the urgency that I felt just a few weeks ago.
I’m not sure why and I don’t think I really want to find out. All I know is that I’m grappling for a chance to spend more times with the people that made going home worth it, even if more than often it feels like a one sided attempt.
Because I am desperately trying to leave a mark, to at least be a fragment of memories, even if only to be reminisced as an afterthought.
Because I’m afraid of drifting apart and to be buried deep in the closet of their mind, painfully forgotten.
Especially by you.
À la mort,
Maybe that’s why I don’t really want to know why I’ve been feeling restless. I don’t feel like admitting that you are the reason behind this suffocating insecurity.