Things I really can't explain.
I have a real update from this weekend on my laptop, which I'm too preoccupied to hook up.
Everyone is posting about the past... me seven years ago? A confused, frustrated and lonely thirteen year old who was refusing to play the game, had burning passions I had no idea what to do with, who took my refuge in books for the most part, and the occasional conversation with the odd respectful adult. Nothing else in that meme strikes me as important to say. I'm impatient today, and honestly, sometimes it feels like nothing much has changed.
Two years ago, which is the more prominent date in my mind, I was a happy-go-lucky, still confused and frustrated, but somewhat more social eighteen year old who took my refuge in good friends and hikes in the wood and had burning passions I had very vague ideas what to do with, one of which led me to throw myself in a ditch on the side of a country road with pedxing (a somewhat respectful 'adult'), which landed me in something I really wanted, much more than I expected, and which was completely over my head. Still is. I'd like to say much more about that time, and will.
But today the past is too coloured for me in green and golden light; smells too much of printed pages, pine and tea; is too full of soft grasses, warm fall evenings, the organic electricity of touch, and youthful aches and pains for me to be at all comfortable in this hard, noisy, damp and empty place.
Today is just another moving part with no present comfort but the unsure voices of strangers.
Today, I'd like to speak of the future, conjure it like a hot white flash of light to tear through the ragged cracks of these walls, like a bright young star that I can follow back home - full circle to soft autumn evenings in golden fields.
Everyone is posting about the past... me seven years ago? A confused, frustrated and lonely thirteen year old who was refusing to play the game, had burning passions I had no idea what to do with, who took my refuge in books for the most part, and the occasional conversation with the odd respectful adult. Nothing else in that meme strikes me as important to say. I'm impatient today, and honestly, sometimes it feels like nothing much has changed.
Two years ago, which is the more prominent date in my mind, I was a happy-go-lucky, still confused and frustrated, but somewhat more social eighteen year old who took my refuge in good friends and hikes in the wood and had burning passions I had very vague ideas what to do with, one of which led me to throw myself in a ditch on the side of a country road with pedxing (a somewhat respectful 'adult'), which landed me in something I really wanted, much more than I expected, and which was completely over my head. Still is. I'd like to say much more about that time, and will.
But today the past is too coloured for me in green and golden light; smells too much of printed pages, pine and tea; is too full of soft grasses, warm fall evenings, the organic electricity of touch, and youthful aches and pains for me to be at all comfortable in this hard, noisy, damp and empty place.
Today is just another moving part with no present comfort but the unsure voices of strangers.
Today, I'd like to speak of the future, conjure it like a hot white flash of light to tear through the ragged cracks of these walls, like a bright young star that I can follow back home - full circle to soft autumn evenings in golden fields.