inexorable unidirectionality of time
I'm so homesick for my childhood I can hardly stand it.
I never thought it would be possible to feel so old, hide-bound, and childlike all at the same time.
I went for a walk this afternoon (cabin fever) and decided, on a whim, to go re-explore the forest in my parents' backyard. Yes, forest. Seriously. I haven't been back there in years - I had trouble getting in, the blackberries are overrunning the place and all my old paths are gone, and even more fun getting out, and you know what? It may have been a mistake. All the stupid little things from childhood, the hours and hours my friends and I used to spend in that forest. We played house, we caught water-striders in the creek, we pretended to be chased by monsters, we could spend days back there being idiots, and I'd forgotten about all of it.
Possibly the worst thing about being a literature major and/or classicist is the temporal... distortion it leaves you with, the conviction that if something passes you by you can just flip the pages backwards and experience it again, pay more attention the next time.
I read too much.
I will spare you the rant on how dissatisfied I am with my life right now in other ways, since it's long and whiny and not very coherent. If anyone wants to see pictures from my afternoon ramble, my Flickr account is here. (I'm totally addicted to Flickr now. It is the awesome.)