You go into something knowing what it's all about, understanding how it has to be, but that doesn't necessarily ease the pain of it; that doesn't make it sting any less when you're alone and it's too late to call anyone and you're rendered immobile by saddness.
And the thing is, we all try to be so brave and tough and say it doesn't matter, because to let anyone know that it really, really DOES matter would mean stepping out of character. Like an aside in a play, admitting that sometimes it totally sucks would be showing the audience that we're not, in fact, who we said we were.
And it's hard. It's really, really hard to feel this way and not talk about it, not have a good cry and then just move on. But it's not going to end. Sure, I can cry right now, then go to bed and wake up to the eastern light - a little refreshed, a little clearer - but it's all going to happen again two weeks from now, two months from now and for the rest of my life.
And sometimes I want to say that it isn't fair, but for god's sake, what is? Is it fair, for example, that the people in the park downtown are stabbing each other because they're so strung out on drugs because they fell into a cycle of abuse and addiction because somewhere, somehow, we failed them, hending over drugs and poverty in lieu of the American Dream?
And I try, try, try to not feel sorry for myself, because I have had the World's Easiest Life, but tonight I can't help but feel a little sad, a little left out, a little patronized.
But again, it's not going to end. This is the deal, and I've known that all along. So what good is it to write this entry, to cry myself to sleep, to react in any way at all? I don't react to the moonrise the rain the color of grass the curve of the land. They're what they are. This is what it is. And that's quite enough on the subject.