September 17, 2001
To my Pen and the Night, As Usual
If only I had something constructive to write about instead of seeking my diary to weep and whine all over it.
Saturday is surely weeks away by now, right?
The house is dark. My average family is in bed, as they are employed/enrolled, and yet I am suddenly enveloped in the emotions that have lain under a groggy exterior during the day. And I cannot find comfort. My writing, even, cannot release this sadness. To think that he has left me.
To think that he cannot cry about it.
Where do his tears go? I have seen him cry once, so I know he is capable.
But he is not capable of crying for me. Never for me.
Perhaps he does not love me. How could he love me and still pretend everything is allright? That he will not feel the pain of a thousand miles between us?
How can he not cry?
How is he okay?
How is he now?
He does not love me. He only thinks he does. My conception of love does not include his dry eyes, his determination and his anticipation of departure. But I could be wrong. Which would make me the weak, melodramatic one. It would make love less than this feeling I have in my heart.
I am always wrong.
And it would make him okay.
And I will never be okay.
astera at 10:19 p.m.