(no subject)
I want to start writing on here again though I don't exactly have a lot to say. I feel vacant and a little listless. Money has become a problem. Schooling and relationships are not. You take the good with the bad. I don't feel particularly passionate or upset or anything at all. It is the end of my week. Things are moving right along. My mind may still be wrapped in the Alice Munro we were to read for today. It left me feeling protective but funny in my stomach and envisioning my grandmother's house. I wish we were closer. I wish she would have responded to my letters. I wish for a lot of things that don't happen. No matter. She remains a fixture in my thoughts. I wonder how things would have been growing up if my family had been more open. If they'd spoke of tragedies or victories or shared anecdotes. In a sense I feel as if I've grown up inside a bubble, never truly knowing the ins and outs of what shaped me. When you're shy and an only child there is never really much discussion. I cried easily. That leads to silences. Any speaking was hushed, rushed, and one-on-one. It still is, I suppose--safe for the shallow talk that amounts to nothing at all.