the fear of leaving the bubble even if i knew the bubble was only temporary

5:39 PM


I've spent three glorious days in the bubble of my own agenda. Weekends should be like that always, yes? Well, not to me. Weekends usually loom with tasks and television and downtime, all of which I enjoy, but mostly they're just to pass the time between work-weeks. I took an extra day this weekend (on purpose) because I was feeling stressed and misunderstood and really didn't have any plans besides an extra day for tasks and television and downtime. I was greeted with deadlines and writing, for myself and for others. I got to read and indulge in some bad tv that oddly hit some nerves. It's been uplifting and reassuring that maybe I'm not fucking up as bad as I think.

And then Sunday hits.
And I remember.
That tomorrow the bubble ends.
Bursts? Not really.
But I have to leave the bubble I'm grown a little comfortable in.

Tomorrow I'll wake up and make coffee and get ready and journey to the desk I spend eight hours on weekdays. I'll probably enjoy it enough and I won't exactly think of the bubble, but I'll have moments where I miss it.

Tomorrow comes with facing some realities: I don't live in the bubble (yet). I have to deal with some unwanted stress and people and manage to keep my shit in check. I can't cry, no matter how much I want to (a goal I set for myself this week). I can be work-Jordan and get everything accomplished that's asked of me and hopefully not piss people off in my path. Red may surface and that will bring some spice, but my ultimate goal is to just get through the day and return to the bubble.

Last night I was reading Robert Frost before bed (as pretentious as that sounds) and I attempted to read poems I hadn't yet, but of course, my hands turned to the page I'd dog-eared years ago. I've read and re-read this poem. I've memorized it for two separate English classes in two separate school districts and eventually tattooed it on my body. I love the words and I thought I understood the meaning, but it wasn't until this particular reading of it that it sunk in. It's fucking sad. It's devastating and for some reason, it was like a blanket that enveloped my shoulders on a night that became cold out of nowhere.

I can't succumb to the woods, no matter how tempting. I've got entirely too much life left to live.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

...Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening // Robert Frost

And as I type this, my dear Sestra texts me that she is feeling numb over a boy and she is drowning her sorrows in milk soaked pumpkin cookies and Sex and the City. I sure raised her right.


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sup fool.