i don't really care what this girl's got to say, cause i never really cared about my feelings anyway
at least the weather is beautiful. it's cool, dark, and calm outside. the ground is wet, but it's not quite raining. the thickness of the air is noticible around the streetlights and in my lungs. every breath feels like home, when i would walk down my long gravel driveway alone in the dawn to catch the bus, and breathe in and think consciously, "this is my favorite weather." (sometimes i feel compelled to sit for days and days writing every little detail i remember from my childhood, before it's gone forever. not to show anybody, and not because i think that i had any sort of extraordinary childhood. just because i have this deep-seated dread of anything disappearing. isn't it direly important for a record to exist somewhere in the world of the fact that sometimes i would walk through the field in the morning instead of down the driveway, and my sneakers would get wet from the dew and my feet would be cold all day? or that my mom used to wear bandannas in her hair and drive with the windows down and sing bruce springsteen at the top of her lungs? or that heather wood and i told each other when we were ten years old that we would have to die within one day of each other because there was no way we could bear to live in this world without our best friend? or that when i was about five i had a nightmare when i was sleeping over at my friend lydia's house in the city and that her mom stayed up with me and gave me animal crackers?)
it's not quite fair to say "at least the weather is beautiful," really. most everything is wrenchingly beautiful to me recently, but often in a way that's a bit more complicated. it's all tangled up, and i feel not only inextricably tangled with it but also entirely insignificant. i observe, i sympathize, and i feel. when i let myself, i feel. that's not always, because i know that there's really no good that can come of it. but when i don't i'm even more disconnected and alien, so i go back to it in the end.
i find myself using the same logic to analyze literature as i do to analyze my life. i didn't notice this until i did both of them extensively in the same day. it's strange to feel so detached from myself. i recently realized that i have, to varying extents, ever since i got here. there are a few possible explanations for that, none of which are worth discussing in my livejournal. i miss feeling passionate about anything.
so what will fix it all? wearing mike's adidas baseball hat backwards all day may have helped some, but it certainly didn't do the trick entirely. maybe the summer. maybe even just the sunrise.
it's not quite fair to say "at least the weather is beautiful," really. most everything is wrenchingly beautiful to me recently, but often in a way that's a bit more complicated. it's all tangled up, and i feel not only inextricably tangled with it but also entirely insignificant. i observe, i sympathize, and i feel. when i let myself, i feel. that's not always, because i know that there's really no good that can come of it. but when i don't i'm even more disconnected and alien, so i go back to it in the end.
i find myself using the same logic to analyze literature as i do to analyze my life. i didn't notice this until i did both of them extensively in the same day. it's strange to feel so detached from myself. i recently realized that i have, to varying extents, ever since i got here. there are a few possible explanations for that, none of which are worth discussing in my livejournal. i miss feeling passionate about anything.
so what will fix it all? wearing mike's adidas baseball hat backwards all day may have helped some, but it certainly didn't do the trick entirely. maybe the summer. maybe even just the sunrise.