I went to dinner with a friend last night, and after the obligatory fight over who is going to pay, she said, "You are in town visiting!!" How bizarre to think of my return home as a visit. This place looks exactly the same, but in between the congested hallways and tiny empty spaces live the implements that blur my faulty memory from reality and truth. It's very silly of me to feel this way, this form of intrusion like I don't belong; often feeling left out and left behind. But this is all of my own creation: leaving the things I had and the things I thought I needed for something better. And when I return to find the change I wanted, I realized I haven't changed much myself. This contempt, if it is contempt for a lack of a better word, is confusing and uneasy. I'm not sure of anything anymore. I hope I am not alone when I say that the relationships I've built with people meant more to me than it meant to them... and as selfish as it sounds, I hope I am not alone so that other people would know how I feel. The weight crushes my bones and splatters my organs... lungs flat with no air, stomach empty as the acid bubbles and melts from the inside, spleen and all its lymphatic vessels stain the floor, and the floor where my body lies creates a rupture in the earth, and my body is devoured by the thirsty crowds gathered at my demise. Read Susan Sontag's "Regarding the Pain of Others". Destruction and death captivates most people. Humans are so despicable.
Christmas was strange and I am not surprised it turned out that way. But seriously, war IS over, and the demons that held us down merely deflate as our universe expands. There's always a pretty picture to paint and share with the people around us, but the truth doesn't always turn out pretty and the people around us were never really around us. I see now how fragile it is. The time spent into being friends and the laughs shared between friends may turn out to be nothing more than wasting time to get through the struggles of adolescence.
After being in California for a few days, I missed New York. I guess it's because I thought I'd returned home to something... My parents are doing fine without me, and the bookshelf filled with my books isn't my bookshelf anymore. The sheets stretched out across my bed aren't the comforting sheets I used to lay in. And how selfish of me to think that lives would stop living, hearts would stop beating, breaths would freeze in the air, masses of joy would fill the gaps. Who am I kidding? Humans are so manipulative.
Time spent with others shouldn't be pressured or forced. Sincerity comes a long way, and I'm just searching for familiarity amidst these things that don't mean anything to me and these things that fail to stir up any comfort. So we go to sleep at night and we wake up in the mornings and find that days last longer when you wish to be somewhere else. There's this person I see through the window, braving the blizzard and jumping into puddles, but she's so far off into the distance and I can't tell what she's wearing or what she looks like or if she's smiling.
The seas will not calm because I need the rushing tides to stop. And the insanity of loss does not compare to losing. I'm not done mourning, 7 years and counting... I need more time but time only brings more to mourn and I'm not ready. It's going to explode...
This is going no where.
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