Inadequate Expressions of Ambiguous Feelings
I was taking my books and food out of bags to place into my luggage when an odd feeling of unease manifested in my consciousness. Just a sort of light tension in my chest, my muscles binding toward a central spot, and an emptiness in my stomach despite having filled it with cheesecake and eggnog only a couple hours before. Something felt wrong. Something felt out of place. I was anxious, fearful, and down.
I think it was the empty bags. Empty bags with my name on them. They erode my soul a little. These bags that used to have stuff in them, snacks for the road, love grandma. Fated now for the landfill. Filled with nothing but air. Something about these empty bags gnawed at me. It's uncomfortable to face a lifetime of eating, ending in the ground, ending as bones.
My mother has been converting old VHS tapes to DVD with her new toy. Consequently we've watched a few family historical documents. At the age of six, I was talkative and animated. I was endlessly fascinated with my Christmas presents, always had something to do, always had something to say. Sometimes I want to go back in time and shake my childhood self, tell him to shut the fuck up so he won't embarrass his future self. Sometimes I think I will succeed in that, because for the most part I have become quieter, and I am often torn between wanting to speak and wanting to be silent, between trying to say something interesting and telling myself that it's not that interesting so shut the fuck up so I won't embarrass myself. Most of the time I end up saying things and regretting them for internal reasons.
But that's not the point. I have very poor memory, so I have to make a small mental leap to connect that talkative brat on television with myself. This was me. I am the same person as that one. Looking at a family Christmas picture from ten years ago, I feel that everyone looks exactly the same, except older. That, and I dressed marginally worse than I do now.
But that's not it either. The pictures, the videos, seeing a record of the last twenty years, change and stasis. Perhaps it is acknowledging I finally have to grow up. Instead of freeloading for weeks at a time, I'll be cooking for my kids, cleaning up after their messes, bending my life around theirs. Perhaps it is the realization that one day I will truly no longer live in this house, the house I've lived in for 16 years. Perhaps it is knowing that someday my parents will die. Knowing that everything ends.
I wish I could live in today instead of worrying about entropic heat death. I don't know why plastic bags and videotapes make me think about this.
I think it was the empty bags. Empty bags with my name on them. They erode my soul a little. These bags that used to have stuff in them, snacks for the road, love grandma. Fated now for the landfill. Filled with nothing but air. Something about these empty bags gnawed at me. It's uncomfortable to face a lifetime of eating, ending in the ground, ending as bones.
My mother has been converting old VHS tapes to DVD with her new toy. Consequently we've watched a few family historical documents. At the age of six, I was talkative and animated. I was endlessly fascinated with my Christmas presents, always had something to do, always had something to say. Sometimes I want to go back in time and shake my childhood self, tell him to shut the fuck up so he won't embarrass his future self. Sometimes I think I will succeed in that, because for the most part I have become quieter, and I am often torn between wanting to speak and wanting to be silent, between trying to say something interesting and telling myself that it's not that interesting so shut the fuck up so I won't embarrass myself. Most of the time I end up saying things and regretting them for internal reasons.
But that's not the point. I have very poor memory, so I have to make a small mental leap to connect that talkative brat on television with myself. This was me. I am the same person as that one. Looking at a family Christmas picture from ten years ago, I feel that everyone looks exactly the same, except older. That, and I dressed marginally worse than I do now.
But that's not it either. The pictures, the videos, seeing a record of the last twenty years, change and stasis. Perhaps it is acknowledging I finally have to grow up. Instead of freeloading for weeks at a time, I'll be cooking for my kids, cleaning up after their messes, bending my life around theirs. Perhaps it is the realization that one day I will truly no longer live in this house, the house I've lived in for 16 years. Perhaps it is knowing that someday my parents will die. Knowing that everything ends.
I wish I could live in today instead of worrying about entropic heat death. I don't know why plastic bags and videotapes make me think about this.