The Passing Time.

I'm looking in the mirror, and what I see hasn't changed one bit. I see the same, somewhat matured and awkward looking thing I've been looking at for a few years now. It's just gotten a little thinner since freshman year.
And she says I'm different.
I state my case, saying that junior year has really just been one stressful cluster of events, which she describes as "real life". Really though, if I'm the short, hard to talk to teenager she says I am, then I must not be looking at myself the right way.
I guess I'm having perspective issues.
But that aside, I have other things on my mind. I'm trying to pick my guitar back up and play through the dusty November evenings when there's no homework to do. I'm reconnecting. I'm in constant contact with a few people. Okay. More like two. But that's a lot for me.
This feeling of sitting in the middle of an iced over pond is strange to me. It's slick and dangerous all around me. I've somehow managed to get myself right into the center of all this problematic area. Oh, how weird it feels.
I'm feeling detached to some people, and very near others. It's another strange, spacious feeling.

Please. Please don't give up. You're making progress. Your world won't end. I promise you I'll be there till you need me no more. Be persistent. I will never let you fall back. Ever.

I wish I had something fun to write about. But I don't. I'll probably have something to write about tomorrow though.
I'm assuming this lunchtime date I have an invitation to tomorrow should be quite splendid.