I Hear It All
Despite accomplishing a lot yesterday (both things I wanted and needed to do), I still can't shake this feeling of being off. When Scrapper called last night and asked what I was doing, my answer was, "Laundry, baking peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, warming up my chili for dinner, firing off two resumes, journaling, and listening to music. You?" All in one breath. He laughed and said, "Whoa." When I am busy is the only time I'm not inexplicably sad.
I feel like things are happening too slow and too fast simultaneously.
Moving? Too fast. Time with friends? Too fast. I want more of it, all the time, how on earth can I spend enough time with my best friend and her baby? How can I get in enough flirt time with Colin before I go? How can I go out to dinner with KJ enough times? Etc. etc. The answer is that I can't. I know I will be alone for a time when I get home -- alone in Rob's apartment, alone in my mother's house, the exact location is irrelevant -- and I want to put the brakes on my life, slow the time here, savor being surrounded and cushioned. I never thought I'd see the day when Delaware wasn't my cushion. It is my own fault that has changed; I fought so hard to change it. Slow down, slow down, slow down.
Things going too slow include the packing process, the delivery of my W2 for my current job, the forgiveness I crave from a friend. Too slow is the arrival of spring, the 550-mile drive home, the delivery of my descent into hippie-dom (i.e. new deodorant, toothpaste, and a keeper). Too slow is the return of my omnipresent smile, it currently displaced by my lesser-seen scowl. Too slow is the passing of each work day, the growth of my bank account, the passage of time before I can again afford a new camera or new ink. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.
I don't know how to slow or quicken things accordingly, so instead I just feel out of sorts in my own life, like I'm wearing a previously comfortable sweater that has shrunk in the wash. I'm trying to stretch it out in the right ways, move my arms and hold the sleeves to make it fit again -- but the fabric is stubborn. I fear it might be ruined for me. Someone else will find it on the rack at the Salvation Army on Central, someone slighter and smaller, and I will have to find another that suits me better. But it's a process when thrifting, it takes time, and to liken my life to sifting through the wild, wonderful sartorial selections at my local thrift shop gives me some measure of comfort. I always find great things there, I have incredible luck, and my life will once again be great. I'll just have to bear the strange smell and sift through the sequined XXL sweaters in the meanwhile.
I feel like things are happening too slow and too fast simultaneously.
Moving? Too fast. Time with friends? Too fast. I want more of it, all the time, how on earth can I spend enough time with my best friend and her baby? How can I get in enough flirt time with Colin before I go? How can I go out to dinner with KJ enough times? Etc. etc. The answer is that I can't. I know I will be alone for a time when I get home -- alone in Rob's apartment, alone in my mother's house, the exact location is irrelevant -- and I want to put the brakes on my life, slow the time here, savor being surrounded and cushioned. I never thought I'd see the day when Delaware wasn't my cushion. It is my own fault that has changed; I fought so hard to change it. Slow down, slow down, slow down.
Things going too slow include the packing process, the delivery of my W2 for my current job, the forgiveness I crave from a friend. Too slow is the arrival of spring, the 550-mile drive home, the delivery of my descent into hippie-dom (i.e. new deodorant, toothpaste, and a keeper). Too slow is the return of my omnipresent smile, it currently displaced by my lesser-seen scowl. Too slow is the passing of each work day, the growth of my bank account, the passage of time before I can again afford a new camera or new ink. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.
I don't know how to slow or quicken things accordingly, so instead I just feel out of sorts in my own life, like I'm wearing a previously comfortable sweater that has shrunk in the wash. I'm trying to stretch it out in the right ways, move my arms and hold the sleeves to make it fit again -- but the fabric is stubborn. I fear it might be ruined for me. Someone else will find it on the rack at the Salvation Army on Central, someone slighter and smaller, and I will have to find another that suits me better. But it's a process when thrifting, it takes time, and to liken my life to sifting through the wild, wonderful sartorial selections at my local thrift shop gives me some measure of comfort. I always find great things there, I have incredible luck, and my life will once again be great. I'll just have to bear the strange smell and sift through the sequined XXL sweaters in the meanwhile.