I miss the sun. I miss the unreasonable happiness, the contentment, the satisfaction of morning sunshine, my missing peace.
So I bury my head under the covers, and stare at my ceiling, thinking of nothing. And I wake up, not wanting to, only to pass the time in languor and laziness. I wake up to be yet awakened by a cup of coffee, the one thing that brings a smile to my gloomy, sunless face. I then realize that I have yet to finish readings or papers, that I have yet to do the week’s laundry or empty my room of dirty clothes or take out the trash.
I find 19 to be an age of excuses, of irresponsible, immature acts, of mishaps that are finding their ways in. I find 19 to be an unbearable time line, a border between freedom and mature responsibility. I find 19 irrelevant to my needs, dull and bland.
Sleep is becoming the only great part of my days. I get to sleep without being. Without the thoughts. So I sleep and everything else is whatever.