Orange Juice & Armaretto

I haven't met eyes with the shower in two days. My feet haven't gone much farther than the fridge. Somehow, somewhere, my energy is collecting into an unreachable and undefinable ball. My arms don't wrap quite as tightly around my girlfriend anymore, my hands no longer grasp and shake another's with confident strength. I feel dead. Sleep takes the best of me, sweeps me off my feet, and steals me away from those that I love. Every step on the scale is another pound lost. Whether I consume 2500 calories or 25. I feel like an infant, learning to hold it's head up without it flopping down. Each keystroke takes more effort than the last. Am I depressed? Quite possibly. Am I in a stage of utter depression? I really don't think so. I am scared though. I am scared that I could possibly be a person that I never thought I would be. A weak one. A sick one. Every conscious moment is a terrifying scramble of possibilities that I thought were impossible. For me at least. But then again, who am I to determine who I am? No one, that's who. I can indeed determine what I do, regardless of who I am, but who I am is an unchangeable matter. I am terribly terrified of that. I can't stop being me. Whoever that happens to be at this moment. Right now I have to play the waiting game until I know. 2 weeks is much too long in my eyes, and school is just another week after that. My head is pulsing in pain with veins not big enough for this blog. My body aches to recede back into its horizontal position on the right side of the bed and consciously drift off to the sound of The Cure being played on VH1 Classic. My head will continue to swirl until I actually have something good to write.