Things I am not allowed to say

There is a list of things I am not allowed to say out loud.

That I worry every day that a day will come when I cannot remember how it felt to walk from my college building to my apartment on a fall day, or the way the crisp air felt on my face on my morning runs at Memorial Park. That there are days when I feel I dream too big, and there are days when I fear I dream too small. That I fear buying a nice bed frame only to leave it behind in a year or two or putting a nail to hang a frame because who knows for how long I will stay in this place. That sadly at this early age I have understood —and worse, experienced— both loneliness and solitude. That sometimes it takes every bit of courage there is in me to get out of bed to face what it seems another impossible day. That I hate the expectations that people have about me because I dread they will find out they have been betting on the wrong horse all along. That there are things I would change if given a chance; that I regret not meeting your eyes when you waited for me at the door. That try as I might, I cannot go back to easier, if not necessarily better, days. That I have been fundamentally changed by time and distance and that not often, but some times, I look at the mirror and I do not recognize the girl that looks back at me. That I have made my happiness dependent of two words: “When I…” and that late at night when I think of this panacea I realize it will not come down to it. And above all, that time is slipping by purposelessly and rapidly and no matter how hard I try to keep up, I am always ten steps behind.

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