Some days I wonder.
Some days I wonder if I'm in the right program. Turns out my profs don't think I listen. Which is great for them to tell me now, now that I'm almost done. No one believes me when I tell them I'm trying to work on it. Because they don't listen. Because I don't listen.
Some days I wonder if I should just walk. If I hold a title for the prestige, or because I really do all the wonderful things people think I do. Do I do the work, or is it all an illusion. An illusion I work too hard for.
Some days I wonder if this little apartment is just a little box for me to stuff all my worries in. Shoebox, like the Barenaked Ladies song... Under the bed, in the place where mom never cleans, where you keep all the lies. Where it fills up with all the masks we wear.
Some days I wonder how I make it through the day.
Some days I don't even think of you at all. Your motivations, your real concept of me and of you and our mutual fake-ness. Maybe that's why the wasp-y conversation over wine and rediculous chicken seemed just too damned natural.
Some days the heaviness in my chest just wins out.