A book which held clues to the answers of my echoing questions slips out of my hand, because I just can't concentrate on it. I can't concentrate on much of a point at all.
I'm just frustrated. A lot of things feel not quite right, but I can't put my finger on what's wrong with any of them.
I slip out of my chair and awkwardly shuffle outside to run a quick errand. Maybe a breath of fresh air will clear my mind. A quick gust of wind to blow the troubles from my head. But as I stumble along the concrete sidewalk under the sunshine, feeling messy and out of place, I receive no relief. My head spins more and more, as I kick at a pile of incongruous dirt and think about the ridiculousness of my phobia of people and whether they're staring over their shoulders watching the clumsy girl in pink and green as she fights a breeze and dirty walk.
I don't care much for that though, do I, draw the mail out and oh blast, another uncared for bank statement. It's behind the information I've got, the payments I've made, so I care nothing for it. When I've stumbled inside, past the people whose wandering eyes I fear, I grumble about the envelope and toss it aside.
That didn't matter either. I sink into my chair again and gaze at a book waiting impatiently on my desk. I grumble at it too. I want answers, not clues. I hate mysteries. Or maybe I don't. I don't really know. I'm just tired of them I suppose. I'm tired of feeling aimless and darkened and flippant and not knowing why.
My desires are too complex and paradoxical. I can't deal with them. I don't know what I think anymore. Or what I believe. Quite who or where I am.
And my flippant attitude snorts. It's nothing. It'll blow over in time. It doesn't matter. You're ridiculous, Megan.
Thank you kindly, flippancy. I just don't want to own up to anything to anyone any more.
I'll go stare out the window. Try to find a fitting answer to my questions.