You Don’t Belong To Me

It is the beginning of July and I am breathing in the bittersweet scent of tingling excitement and broken dreams. The last week has been rough, to put it simply. The lake has been ignored for 2 a.m. phone calls and late nights at the restaurant. Start with summer, add back pain, self-pity, tears, apprehension, sweat, money; subtract the lake, bad brakes, comfort around my parents, hating chocolate, and beachless days.
I am snuggling against something that gives me pleasure most days but lately has been vexing me, wearing me down to my last nerve. To the point where I want to curl up into a ball and just cry at the futility of it all. Add that to the prospect of the unknown, and you have one huge jumble of barely-sepressed anxiety, covered with senseless glee and brightness. I am spinning around bonfires with wine coolers and a sense of self-accomplishment and belonging. What else can I ask for?
I burn up inside when I feel helpless. Lately I’ve been reduced to cinder. It’s not so much the letting go of my control, but rather the prospect of not knowing. Which I suppose is the exact same thing.

Good afternoon.
Love,
Amanda.