faking a yawn
Now I remember why I keep myself so busy. Today has been mostly something of a day that I've kept for myself, to myself. It's beyond cloudy or snowy outside, and I don't really intend to get out of the house, and it's exceptionally hard, with missing you (which I did immediately the second I was on the highway) and warmth, and nice mornings.
It started out nicely, no alarm, toasty, pleasant, caffeinated. Today was a day to tie up a lot of loose ends, to get over to school for the first time this year, to fill out paperwork and buy overpriced books, la de dah. But of course, I get the inevitable argument with my dad to fill the space, bring me to unnecessary tears, feeling like a dolt. I had missed my family, but the more I come home after being gone, the more I feel detached, the more I feel as if my room should have a price tag for rent. It's hard, holing yourself up in your room. The longer you escape, the more clarity befalls you-- and the harder it is, to feel any kind of comfort from the tie you may have severed.
I've been doing a good amount of reading lately, too...
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, Life of Pi by Yann Martel, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Kim Cooper (33 1/3 series), Blankets by Craig Thompson, and I'm somehow in the middle of Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs, Ethan Frome by Edith Warton, The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley and (always) Ariel by Sylvia Plath simultaneously.
I don't know. It's been chaotic, in ways. I don't want to suffer this cold anymore, these turbulent culminations that fly straight from these oppressing winter storms. I don't want to sink into depression this winter, and I don't think that I'm going to be--
and haven't I said that every winter? I think that I've become stronger in 5,000 ways, but wintertime, how persistent are you?
stay warm.
It started out nicely, no alarm, toasty, pleasant, caffeinated. Today was a day to tie up a lot of loose ends, to get over to school for the first time this year, to fill out paperwork and buy overpriced books, la de dah. But of course, I get the inevitable argument with my dad to fill the space, bring me to unnecessary tears, feeling like a dolt. I had missed my family, but the more I come home after being gone, the more I feel detached, the more I feel as if my room should have a price tag for rent. It's hard, holing yourself up in your room. The longer you escape, the more clarity befalls you-- and the harder it is, to feel any kind of comfort from the tie you may have severed.
I've been doing a good amount of reading lately, too...
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, Life of Pi by Yann Martel, Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Kim Cooper (33 1/3 series), Blankets by Craig Thompson, and I'm somehow in the middle of Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs, Ethan Frome by Edith Warton, The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley and (always) Ariel by Sylvia Plath simultaneously.
I don't know. It's been chaotic, in ways. I don't want to suffer this cold anymore, these turbulent culminations that fly straight from these oppressing winter storms. I don't want to sink into depression this winter, and I don't think that I'm going to be--
and haven't I said that every winter? I think that I've become stronger in 5,000 ways, but wintertime, how persistent are you?
stay warm.