Most of the time I am just fine and most of the time I can smile and take pictures outside my window and ooh and ahh over the budding trees and tell you and tell myself I am just fine and everything is fine fine fine. But sometimes 'fine' just doesn't cut it because fine is just fine and don't I want to be better than fine? And sometimes 'fine' just doesn't cut it because I realize I'm not even fine. I'm much worse, really.
This realization is not boy related ("for once" they sigh). Or maybe it is? But that isn't all it is. There is an emptiness inside that I can't simply blame on an empty inbox. That would be too simplistic and easy. This hollowness is bigger and scarier and more unexplainable than that. It is roots that don't cut far enough, and a plastered smile that is starting to waver, and it is caring too much always and about everything and about everyone and wondering what I get back in return. It's about wonodering how much longer I can pretend.
But don't worry. I'll be fine again tomorrow and this blog will resume its original form.