It’s no secret that lately, I’ve been feeling miserable. All other aspects of my life are going terribly, aggravating my writer’s despair, and I feel like I’m steadily sinking in a bottomless pit of depression. And all my negative feelings are plain as day, all over my face, discernible in the lethargic way I carry myself lately. My office friends ask me what’s wrong, and say they miss my smile and laughter.
But more than that, they also try to find ways to cheer me up.
I carry my MP3 player with me at all times because I don’t want to have to see you (with her). I pretend it’s an object of intense interest, that I can’t take my eyes off it, and hear nothing else but the music.
Dear Friend M,
You must have been shocked when I cried: “No, we’re different. I’m sure of it.”
But when you said: “We’re the same, I also wanted to be a writer, but I gave it up in high school,” instinct took over me and I wholeheartedly expressed what I believed to be the truth.