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| Everything is a mess. There are books, papers, cigarettes, tacks, pens, headphones, and all sorts of other college-representing shenanigans scattered across my desk. I don't want any of this stuff around me. Clothes, necklaces, flip flops. I wonder which of my possessions will make into the campground bookbag which I will inevitably hold once our van breaks down, which it will during some point of the trip. If we are cold and alone, in the middle of the desert or in the middle of the Rockies, at least I should be happier. It seems that no matter where I go, nor how much I manage to change who I am, I cannot find consistent content. In fact, it is all simply tedious, and I am damn sick of it. I can't grow if I'm being uprooted.
There is still so much violent, painful, sickening bullshit to take care of. First, I must finish this semester in peace. I will write all of the papers, and take all of the exams. I will sign all of the withdrawal forms and talk to all of the administrators. I will find a job and crash at friends' houses. I will make a list of all of the people around the United States willing to house us across the way. I will get the WWOOF book and contact all of the farmers in our predicted area. I will chart our destination and get all of the details for what we should have in the car with us. I will list all of the hostels and Salvation Army stations along our way. I'll do it all. I just can't get the car.
Above the waves, going under. Everything is sinking, but it always manages to stay a little bit above the water. As long as just a bit of oxygen comes through, one can breathe. The point is getting more, no matter what. The only fear, the only mismatched subconscious thought which stops me in my tracks is guilt. Mother, and sister, and grandparents, how I long to profess my apologies. I hope that on this endeavor I do not injure myself and have you put another daughter in a cold grave. I hope that you don't worry every day, but I know that you will. As much as I would like to, up to a certain extent, be Chris McCandless, I cannot.
Change is constant and unpredictable. Still, I have the same exact meal every day, twice a day, as if on schedule. There is so much control, but I can't take it anymore. Every expected detail hurts. I wonder about the size of this dorm room. I wonder about the lives of other people living in this box. How can they simply go about their business? Go to class? Do their work? Go to bars and get wasted? How can they sit so quietly and not tear out their hair and scratch at their skin for want of freedom? Sometimes it's simply too much to bear and I cannot speak. Repeat, repeat, repeat. If I could leave now, by heaven's sweet embrace, I would. Even if that would make me happy, I wouldn't be able to let everyone down and veer to an extreme side of transcendentalism. If there is such a thing, it is frowned upon.
A lightning storm strikes upon the head of an old wooden barn. Steadily rotting since its birth, put together by loving hands which struck it with nails and hammers. Paint covering each beautiful wooden pattern a dark, heavy, powerful red only to wear away into an uncomfortable burgundy. As it stood, through the sun and hail and snow, holding the burdens of generations, the sky began to grow darker and darker. A mist entered the barn doors and scared away all of the hands which once worked to create it in an image of sainthood. Finally, rain. Thunder which shakes the earth and breaks the foundation. Lightning splits the wood into pieces. As a tree struck down and blocked from growth dies in agony at what could have been, the broken boards of the barn shout in ecstasy. At last. At last.
I am out of words and I bear no more beautiful prose or fantastical poetry. There are no more snaps or pauses. The birth of art comes from either pain or pleasure. It seems I cannot find the true rugged meaning of either. My computer has been broken, and along with it, the first several pages of my novel are destroyed.
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| I really hope we don't break up before moving into this house. We sign the lease in a couple of days, and oh god, am I scared. Scared of him, scared of myself.
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| I never forgot about you.
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| "If we believe absurdities, we shall commit atrocities" -- Voltaire (1694-1778) | | |
| My angel, you came from a cloud and rescued me from the hellish nook of my mind.
You took my head and layed it on your lap, so I slept away my tears.
When the sand flew in my eyes, you sheltered me. When the storm soaked me to the bone, you comforted me.
I remember the first day I swept your long hair from your eyes and looked at you.
I remember the first time you took my hand, laced fingers, sweaty palms.
I remember the first time you lit my world on fire, your smile piercing through me like a ray of light.
A songbird or a snowflake, wind or water, an element of life. An introduction to being alive.
A lost girl running through a forest, a love that I wasn't looking for cocooned me in a sea of stars.
I can feel your heart beat. I can feel your breath deepen. I can feel you next to me, asleep and dreaming.
I can feel your fingers touch mine. No matter you're an ocean away.
I miss you, baby.
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