Here's to the state of being in the centre of everything you don't fucking understand.
Before, being alone despite of the people around is negligible. Talks about education and rains of saliva of ever going to end motivations - flow throughout the veins to the brain and never seem to stick.
And then it was negligible no longer - it was disturbing. The brain took the role of talking and raining, stomach cooperated by twisting into knots.
Same building, same air - it strangely was not enough. Because, you might say no, but faces matter. Faces fucking matter. I wanted the usual faces, the usual vibes, the usual reactions; the usual per se. I disliked different new faces, because they mean a start of a whole new book, especially when it was in an alien lingo. I had to be the one adapting because apparently I was the alien, albeit it is the usual building I had been going for years.
So I started disappearing, absenting myself frequently to their dismay. I told myself to just take it all, I forced things to just flow in my swelling veins. I thought of only a thing: I want to get the fuck out of here.
Because I couldn't go on. Because I knew I couldn't go on. Not anymore.
I didn't want to think of excuses to excuse myself from the ear-slaughtering naggings anymore.
So I left, and I don't regret it.
Not at all.
I don't miss any of the time I fucking wasted there.
I really don't.
And I never will.