this isn't being written from my laptop

I'm on a public computer, which feels awkward, and the keys are stiff and stubborn so I keep having to backspace and retype half my sentences.

But I needed to get on here and say a few things.

One.

Nothing.

Two.

Confusion. But what else is new?

Three.

I might not graduate.

Four.

Does that mean I'm a failure?

Five.

I have no idea where he and I stand, and I'm too afraid to ask.

We haven't spoken in two whole days (in the grand scheme of life, that's not a long time, I know). But I'm wondering if maybe he doesn't want to talk to me, and if he would feel obligated to reply in a cheery manner if I did text him. And then feel obligated to continue talking to me, or to ask me how I'm doing.

I don't want him to feel obligated.

I also want to ask him if he doesn't care about me ... for me... anymore, and if so, what triggered that. But what if he doesn't have an answer? Or worse, what if his answer is a question, asking me why I would ask that?

It seems to me like anything I could possibly ask him on the subject would make him feel cornered, because what guy likes being questioned about their feelings? Especially if they don't know themselves? I have a feeling he doesn't know anymore.

But then there is the teeny, tiny, remote possibility that this separation is doing the same thing to him as it's doing to me, and that he just won't say anything about it the same way I won't.

That's probably too much to hope for. We do live in a cruel world, after all.

I'm tired of living in the future and wishing for the future...but the present sucks balls. I'm this quivering mess of insecurity and complications. I don't want to need friends. I think, maybe, that I don't. I think that maybe, the effort we put out to live and be happy is useless.

I've been thinking a lot about mortality lately. It's kept me up at night. Probably has to do with seeing my mother lose even more weight...she's only 108 lbs now. Her shoulder blades jut out at sharp angles, and I can count each of the vertebrae in her spine without even having to trace them with my fingers. Her skin hangs around her thighs like ... like bags.

It hurts.
It's terrifying.

I lie awake at night with nightmares that I can't wake up from, strange waking dreams that I'll come home from school one day to find her cold body motionless in the bed. God forbid. But I can't get the thoughts out of my head. I picture what I would do, how I would react, the screams that would tear out of my throat. I would try CPR. I would call 911. I would grab her hand and cry my eyes out.

I just want her to get better.

Why the fck is cancer deadly? Why can't it just sit there and do nothing? How does it kill a person? What does it DO?

I can't sleep at night anymore. Apparently one week of night shifts has completely reversed my sleep schedule. So I lie there, unable to get comfortable, with these thoughts running through my mind. I hate them.

You know what sucks? What really sucks? The fact that we're all going to die.
All of us. Each and every one. One at a time. Sometimes two, some times thirty, sometimes a hundred or more at a time. But the end result is the same: the ones we love left behind to mourn. What's the point? Why be here if we're so transient...so easily disposable? One little slip and fall - a crack of the head on the pavement - gone.

Even me. I'm going to be gone one day. If Jesus doesn't come back first, I'll know what it feels like to cease to exist here...my skin will shrivel up and me, the real me, not this body but who I am on the inside, will go on to see whatever really lies beyond.

It's so strange.

And I hate that I can't escape it. I'm trapped inside this body suit, with fingers and hair and nails and skin and blood and muscles and ligaments... and it wants different things, but because it's all I know from birth, I can't separate what I (the real me) wants from what the body wants.

I'm pretty sure it's two different things. Yes. I'm pretty sure of that.

Sometimes I try to remind myself that the real me, the soul that thinks and feels, is someone else than the body it wears. The body I wear. This body is imperfect. Sometimes I think it's ugly. I wonder what my soul looks like. Is it a mist, like the woman said who wrote that book about the afterlife and hell? Or is it an orb of light like the little boy saw leaving his mother's body when she died?

I really do feel trapped. I wish I could detach myself from my body for short periods of time. But to leave it would mean leaving it to rot...

So strange. So, so strange this world we live in.

I don't think I'll ever understand it.

But I still want to know why.