(no subject)
I should be writing my paper, but I can’t seem to focus. I am suddenly overwhelmed with nostalgia. For old things, old lives, old people, old hang-ups, old addictions, old identities. It’s probably too hard for most to understand, but it’s who I am, and I understand it all too well.
I’m a firm believer in the past, and how it relates to the present and even the future. Sometimes I have flashbacks that are so vivid that I get confused about what reality really is, especially lately. Regression: I’m not exactly sure what that is, but I know that it’s what I tend to do. I cling to it for dear life.
I also believe that there are certain things from your past that you must work through before you can move on. Even if I’m a new creation, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t an old me who needs closure. She was murdered one fantastic day; she still needs to be put to rest. I always find myself running fast, tripping to get away from her. But she lived here once. She used these hands, this mouth, this mind; she used to stare at this same reflection.
It’s strange to think about all the lives that I’ve lived and all the people I’ve been; all the people I’ve known.
“It’s been a hard day so place the ‘don’t disturb sign’ on the door. You lost your place in line again, what a pain. You never seem to wanna dance anymore. It’s a long way down on this roller coaster.”
I guess I’m just something of a dreamer, but I could no less stop dreaming than could I make them come true. But dreams fuel me, in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I think I live in the midst of a dream, or wish I did at least, because all I’d have to do is wake up. Just wake up, Krystle.
If I close my eyes hard enough I can imagine I’m in my special place again. It’s cold and dark and I’m sitting on my hood with a cigarette and a journal, gazing up through the scrawny trees at a brilliantly drawn sky. I can hear the crickets chirping on the banks of the lake as I bask the selfish solace of solitude.
Just because I’ve changed, does that mean that I’m really different?
3 years later and 500 miles away, I find myself haunted by the same hollow echoes.
I have to be honest because ‘honesty leads to enlightenment,’ as Nate would say.
If I’m honest with myself, she still comes back to visit me. She still talks to me. She still reminds me of who I was and what I lived for. I wonder what she’s so afraid of. That she’ll be forever forgotten?
I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want to forget who I was because it reminds me of far He had to go to get me. How low He had to go to lift my chin to look me in the eye.
Yet He doesn’t scoff. I wonder if the rest of them do. Those who walked beside me before I left their side to walk beside His.
I’ve learned the art of running. You should see the way I portray it in my life. One brushstroke of shame followed by one of thankfulness and one of regret. A sculpting of those nights followed by the sharp contrast of tears and painted with the oils of unrequited love.
I could remember all those things I’ve tried so hard to forget. I could forget all those things I’ve tried so hard to remember, but what does it matter?
I’m a firm believer in the past, and how it relates to the present and even the future. Sometimes I have flashbacks that are so vivid that I get confused about what reality really is, especially lately. Regression: I’m not exactly sure what that is, but I know that it’s what I tend to do. I cling to it for dear life.
I also believe that there are certain things from your past that you must work through before you can move on. Even if I’m a new creation, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t an old me who needs closure. She was murdered one fantastic day; she still needs to be put to rest. I always find myself running fast, tripping to get away from her. But she lived here once. She used these hands, this mouth, this mind; she used to stare at this same reflection.
It’s strange to think about all the lives that I’ve lived and all the people I’ve been; all the people I’ve known.
“It’s been a hard day so place the ‘don’t disturb sign’ on the door. You lost your place in line again, what a pain. You never seem to wanna dance anymore. It’s a long way down on this roller coaster.”
I guess I’m just something of a dreamer, but I could no less stop dreaming than could I make them come true. But dreams fuel me, in and out of consciousness. Sometimes I think I live in the midst of a dream, or wish I did at least, because all I’d have to do is wake up. Just wake up, Krystle.
If I close my eyes hard enough I can imagine I’m in my special place again. It’s cold and dark and I’m sitting on my hood with a cigarette and a journal, gazing up through the scrawny trees at a brilliantly drawn sky. I can hear the crickets chirping on the banks of the lake as I bask the selfish solace of solitude.
Just because I’ve changed, does that mean that I’m really different?
3 years later and 500 miles away, I find myself haunted by the same hollow echoes.
I have to be honest because ‘honesty leads to enlightenment,’ as Nate would say.
If I’m honest with myself, she still comes back to visit me. She still talks to me. She still reminds me of who I was and what I lived for. I wonder what she’s so afraid of. That she’ll be forever forgotten?
I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want to forget who I was because it reminds me of far He had to go to get me. How low He had to go to lift my chin to look me in the eye.
Yet He doesn’t scoff. I wonder if the rest of them do. Those who walked beside me before I left their side to walk beside His.
I’ve learned the art of running. You should see the way I portray it in my life. One brushstroke of shame followed by one of thankfulness and one of regret. A sculpting of those nights followed by the sharp contrast of tears and painted with the oils of unrequited love.
I could remember all those things I’ve tried so hard to forget. I could forget all those things I’ve tried so hard to remember, but what does it matter?