anonymous musings from the apartment on level three

This was sent to me a few nights back, from a very dear friend. I asked this friend if I could anonymously blog it for her and she said, "Of course!". She had sat down with a pen in her hand, in attempt to chip away at a pen and ink series that she's currently working on- and this came out instead. The transparent writings, that seem all to familiar to emotions that we have all felt at one time or another. 

"Sometimes We're Broken And We Don't Know Why."

This could not be any more true to the way that I am. What has broken me? I have the most loving family. I have surrounded myself with people who know me truly; They know my strengths. My flaws. They know what I love, who I love. What makes me happiest and what triggers self destruction.

I have things. I have money. I have house plants and mugs of tea. I have a tiny apartment, with red walls and unfinished hardwood floors. A quilt on the bed, a mattress and records on the floor.

Where I once welcomed the silence of this third floor oasis, I now dread the thought of unlocking the door to these things. Because up here, things are all I have.

What is it i'm searching for? Maybe once I figure that out, I can set myself in the right direction. I've looked everywhere. Alcohol. Sex. Drugs. Work. Money. Other people. I can't quite figure out what is missing. But, I feel like the broken toy at the garage sale. The one that seems really cool until you take it home and try to play with it, only to realize that it is broken. Irreparable. What are you doing buying toys at a garage sale, anyways?

Until I find this evasive missing link, I will continue to convince myself that everything is fine up here, watching the sunset from my tiny apartment. Clutching my tea mug for dear life, since it's the only thing that has yet to let me down.