(no subject)
It would seem that no matter where I go, insomnia will follow.
I've seen three people since I've been home. You'd think that the lack of positive reception would get me down at least, but I feel as bored as ever. It might have been interesting to care for once, but I guess my emotion reserves have finally hit empty. It's like I'm dreaming: all the familiar faces and they don't touch me when I wake up.
I drove a car today. Filled it from empty to full and sped down the back roads of all my old haunts. It was nice- I never did speed down them in high school, in another lifetime, so it was like I was blending all my old memories with new ones.
It was great too; I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair was a mess of curls and tangles. The music was blasting: flipping between the White Stripes, old No Doubt, The Ying Yang Twins, and Sara Barielles made for an odd sort of medley, but it suited me just fine.
The windows were down: it was too warm in the car for a sweater, but I hadn't actually worn one in so long that I couldn't bring myself to take it off. There's something to be said about being completely covered in fabric- it was oddly comforting and comfortably odd at the same time. Felt nice to not be totally exposed, but I think I miss the feel of a hot, hot sun burning on my skin.
Accidentally cut off a woman in a van and laughed when she returned in kind two stoplights later. I had forgotten how people could be so petty, but I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Everyone's the hero of their own story. I saw myself as the girl who was finally able to acquaint herself with her new and yet so old home; she saw me as the flighty bitch with the loud rap music who was going at least fifteen over the speed limit. To be honest, she probably had the right of it, but it was nice to feel comfortable in my own skin for a little.
Made a stop to see the newly renovated Fat Bean and walked for a bit along the River Walk. Drove past that one church playground and the train station. Lingered at the stop sign five places past where I always need to go; blasting Modest Mouse in an odd homage I couldn't explain if I tried. It's funny that I haven't seen the people who are these places to me; I suppose it'll be even funnier when I do. I try to not think about it, at the very least, lest it gets to me.
Ended up at Barnes and Nobel, bought a book, found ingredients to cook myself dinner, and lost myself on the bank of the pond in front of my house. It almost seemed like home for awhile: I was by water with crazy hair and the sun; armed with entertainment and sustenance. But it would seem I'm having trouble inserting myself back into the world. This odd sort of exodus I've placed myself in is making it increasingly difficult to reach out to anyone real. I'm not fitting as easily as I had imagined.
Maybe I'm the one that's out of place. Maybe it's not the location that is unsuitable; maybe it's me. Unsuitable up and down because I don't want to go to school, don't want to make decisions, don't want to think. Don't want to talk and don't want to feel.
I just always want a tank full of gas, a working radio, the wind, and a person to remind me why I'm happy to be the way I am now. Even if it's just an angry woman in a mini-van.
I think I'll just lay my head on my pillow, pull the blinds up, patiently wait for the sun to come up, and count the days until I stop dreaming and start sleeping.
I've seen three people since I've been home. You'd think that the lack of positive reception would get me down at least, but I feel as bored as ever. It might have been interesting to care for once, but I guess my emotion reserves have finally hit empty. It's like I'm dreaming: all the familiar faces and they don't touch me when I wake up.
I drove a car today. Filled it from empty to full and sped down the back roads of all my old haunts. It was nice- I never did speed down them in high school, in another lifetime, so it was like I was blending all my old memories with new ones.
It was great too; I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair was a mess of curls and tangles. The music was blasting: flipping between the White Stripes, old No Doubt, The Ying Yang Twins, and Sara Barielles made for an odd sort of medley, but it suited me just fine.
The windows were down: it was too warm in the car for a sweater, but I hadn't actually worn one in so long that I couldn't bring myself to take it off. There's something to be said about being completely covered in fabric- it was oddly comforting and comfortably odd at the same time. Felt nice to not be totally exposed, but I think I miss the feel of a hot, hot sun burning on my skin.
Accidentally cut off a woman in a van and laughed when she returned in kind two stoplights later. I had forgotten how people could be so petty, but I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. Everyone's the hero of their own story. I saw myself as the girl who was finally able to acquaint herself with her new and yet so old home; she saw me as the flighty bitch with the loud rap music who was going at least fifteen over the speed limit. To be honest, she probably had the right of it, but it was nice to feel comfortable in my own skin for a little.
Made a stop to see the newly renovated Fat Bean and walked for a bit along the River Walk. Drove past that one church playground and the train station. Lingered at the stop sign five places past where I always need to go; blasting Modest Mouse in an odd homage I couldn't explain if I tried. It's funny that I haven't seen the people who are these places to me; I suppose it'll be even funnier when I do. I try to not think about it, at the very least, lest it gets to me.
Ended up at Barnes and Nobel, bought a book, found ingredients to cook myself dinner, and lost myself on the bank of the pond in front of my house. It almost seemed like home for awhile: I was by water with crazy hair and the sun; armed with entertainment and sustenance. But it would seem I'm having trouble inserting myself back into the world. This odd sort of exodus I've placed myself in is making it increasingly difficult to reach out to anyone real. I'm not fitting as easily as I had imagined.
Maybe I'm the one that's out of place. Maybe it's not the location that is unsuitable; maybe it's me. Unsuitable up and down because I don't want to go to school, don't want to make decisions, don't want to think. Don't want to talk and don't want to feel.
I just always want a tank full of gas, a working radio, the wind, and a person to remind me why I'm happy to be the way I am now. Even if it's just an angry woman in a mini-van.
I think I'll just lay my head on my pillow, pull the blinds up, patiently wait for the sun to come up, and count the days until I stop dreaming and start sleeping.