enemy
as it stands, if nostalgia refused such a vital role in providing consistant topics to write about or particular feelings to hide on the base of a painted-over canvas, i would be more of a stick in the mud than anything else. but nostalgia fucks me up, you see. it rips through every chord in my brain, attempting to get the best of it, and normally advances with flying colors, awards and all - maybe even a few medals.
the truth of the matter is, i do not know what makes me happy, authentically. i often blame my creativity for fabricating certain scenarios into magical moments in time, capturing a load of horseshit and insignificance that is somehow transformed into a beautiful minute worth stopping time for. it is one of those things, you know, that hurts you more than it helps you.
i left orlando yesterday thinking that i had missed out on so much, knowing that if i were to have stayed there, i would have only hated it more and more everyday. i come back home to miss my old friends more than any other people on this earth, only to accept that things will never be as they were when we were younger and less inhibited. i will go back to new york sad that i still, despite every effort i make, live my life with so many regrets that is it almost impossible to even begin to redeem myself through a liberating lifestyle that should wrap me in content.
basically, i will always be sad and i will always be scared. i will always remember everything, unwillingly, and love everyone that i have loved fully in the past. i will always return to old comfort zones, see someone that i shared some level of emotional attatchment to, and wish i could have changed it then. i will always be fucking burdened with nostalgia.
i need to work on detachment.
the truth of the matter is, i do not know what makes me happy, authentically. i often blame my creativity for fabricating certain scenarios into magical moments in time, capturing a load of horseshit and insignificance that is somehow transformed into a beautiful minute worth stopping time for. it is one of those things, you know, that hurts you more than it helps you.
i left orlando yesterday thinking that i had missed out on so much, knowing that if i were to have stayed there, i would have only hated it more and more everyday. i come back home to miss my old friends more than any other people on this earth, only to accept that things will never be as they were when we were younger and less inhibited. i will go back to new york sad that i still, despite every effort i make, live my life with so many regrets that is it almost impossible to even begin to redeem myself through a liberating lifestyle that should wrap me in content.
basically, i will always be sad and i will always be scared. i will always remember everything, unwillingly, and love everyone that i have loved fully in the past. i will always return to old comfort zones, see someone that i shared some level of emotional attatchment to, and wish i could have changed it then. i will always be fucking burdened with nostalgia.
i need to work on detachment.