Most days I don't attempt words. I almost don't desire them, I'm so tired; blurred emotions, like static, rub me raw as the inevitable draws closer. In less than a month I move some three hundred miles away. Should I be excited? I am, maybe, but I also feel guilty. For leaving. It doesn't feel fair that I am allowed the freedom to chase happiness when my brethren are stuck here. It could be much worse, but it also isn't to be forgotten that my familial situation has long been a special sort of hell.
More than anything, I feel sorry. I feel sorry for leaving. I feel sorry that I can't be the answer to anyone's problems.
This is the best thing for me, the leaving. I'm not happy here. I can't be happy here, no matter how I might try. It's right that I'm leaving.
I still can't make myself believe these words.
I feel sorry for that, too.
