in which i mourn my melancholy

I want to be sad. I want to wallow in it. I wish I could cry, let it out, release the blockade. But nothing that bad has happened. It's just the tiny little things that after some time start to make me wish that crawling into bed were still my default answer. Bed sounds wrong right now, so sedentary, so almost permenant and that isn't who I am anymore.

Plans got canceled, juggling was done and still people let me down, machines let down. I've had this thought before and it's come up more recently. Sometimes I just want to be someone else's priority. The me, the now, the independence is good. It's great actually, but sometimes- like when my car dies -I want to be the destination that someone runs to, the person that someone wants to rescue. It's the just little things I need help with sometimes and that sometimes is now.