On Regretting Feeling Sorry for Myself

I fell asleep on the carpet this afternoon while organizing the lit review for my dissertation. The sweet melodious sound of Carter Burwell filtered through my headphones, and I lay beneath my window and faded off into a dream where I didn’t pine away after someone who doesn’t even know I exist, but when I awoke the pain of an unrequited love story made Burwell sound like noise and my floor feel like a bed of nails. But then I looked around, remembered all of the good that exists in my world, and chastised myself for the self pity that crept in through the cracks of feeling lonely, and misunderstood. 


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