I’m sitting and I’m bleeding. Not physically. I’d almost prefer that though. At least then people would recognize immediately that I’m hurt. I’m not trying to be angsty or over dramatic, but I can see how easy it is to be that way when it comes to love.
People are rushing by coming and going around me, some ambling along as if they carry much more than their luggage in their arms. Others propel themselves with such speed, weaving in and out of families with different levels of audibility, although all could be categorized as loud. Are they about to see someone they love? Are they itching to get home and watch that hockey game on at 8 o’clock? Are they impatient? Too full of loss to no longer wonder at the world and what could be?
I’m sitting in the middle of that mess, observing as I always do. Can’t get up. Can’t participate. Can’t do what I want. Do I want to be a part of the chaos? I’m glued to the hard wooden bench beneath my nonexistent ass. Little pieces of myself sliding between the slats as I waste away like sand in an hourglass. I put myself there. Now how do I get up?