My focus seems to have taken a vacation this week and I can't find my usual work rhythm. I don't know how better to explain it; I feel restless. But at the same time I can't seem to get enough sleep, either. Go figure.
Yesterday was the first day of Spring, but it is still cold here. We had up to 2 feet of snow last week, and that has yet to melt.
Do you know if XXXXXX has a new girlfriend? I haven't had Facebook for years now and I don't miss it...until times like these where I wish I could check in on the lives of the people I care about. I can only see his profile picture has changed, and it's of him kissing a girl. So maybe he has a new love. But I know you two don’t talk, so my asking you is useless.
I feel I'm constantly battling these two sides of myself: satisfaction vs. dissatisfaction. Sometimes I feel that my friends are progressing and leaving me behind, too busy leading the lives they've always wanted to lead. XXXXXX is finally moving away from teaching and is looking into graduate programs for counseling, and last year moved in with her boyfriend. XXXXXX moved to Boston two years ago and is striving towards her career. I look up to them. They don't seem to fear anything.
There seems to be a general consensus (or maybe it's just me) that a geographical move indicates progress. Geographically speaking, I haven't moved in the past three years. Does that mean I'm "settled" (in the bad sense), stagnant? I don't feel the same, I don't think I'm the same. But it's hard to tell. I'm constantly with myself - I'm always hanging out with me. It’s not as easy to point out the differences in myself than say, a friend who I haven't seen in a long time and I can say unequivocally, "She has changed." So I'm left wondering.
And I don't think of him as much as I used to. Hearing his name doesn't devastate me, I have lost feelings of possession. But your new haircut stunned me; you look good, slightly older, good. You are probably not the same as I remember you, but who knows. My dreams of you haven't stopped, though. They are usually too embarrassing to talk about. Most of my memories with you are too embarrassing or emotionally charged in some way for me to think about without getting worked up. I was near Hamilton Street the other weekend, and I saw the ghosts of you, of our friends, of myself. Almost got out of the car and walked to the front door. Hey, you'd say surprised, but lazily, in that certain way that is uniquely yours. You'd touch your lips to try to suppress a smile. And you'd invite me in. The cabinet doors would all be unhinged, the living room and kitchen a mess. But your room was always safe, and still would be. We’d dissolve into the flower patterned comforter your mother picked out for you.
And I sometimes think what I shouldn’t, and what I believe to be untrue: Maybe you didn’t blow it with me; maybe I blew it with you.
But I'm happier alone, happier living selfishly.
I hope you're happy, too. Not you, but you, the one I'm writing to, the one I wanted to hear from.
Maybe life is just a string of missings. Missing people, places, times, smells. I live too much in the past.
Anyway, I liked that movie because I felt all of the possibilities of what could’ve been in one, sad melody and I left the theater in tears, in catharsis.
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
jacobvanloon