There is something to be said for miraculous recoveries. There has to be a reason, one I cannot feel, that has allowed me to be alright, to be able to drive past the places of most pain and not want to disintegrate. There is something to be said for time, and for the distractions of others.
I was alone until I lived in a small flat with a large number of people; I was alone until I let them know me and I told them why I was sad and why I wasn't sure I could be happy.
I was alone until I opened up the chapter I am currently writing. I was alone until I felt love again, felt it with my full heart. I was alone until I felt cold next to them and they moved closer to give me warmth. I was, then, together.
There is something to be said for going away, for a vacation. The healing properties of distraction are rarely noted by doctors. Therapy, medicine, they will tell you. I say, go away, surround yourself with different folks. Learn a language and walk a new street. You will be alright.
Time urges progression, but it also will deceive you like a desperate thief. Time will pass by you while you sleep and when you wake up the next day, months will have passed. You will blink your eyes and you will be at home. You will feel as though the last few months have never happened. You will sum it up with pictures and vague memories, glimpses into your mind that you can never arrange into a clear picture. You will wish with your whole soul that you could have just had one more day, one more chance to make it feel real. You will wake up in an old room and feel like the old you.
There is something that needs fixing and it doesn't help that there is no one sleeping below me, next to me, or within ten yards of me. There is a vacuum somewhere deep within time that is constantly sucking memories into its black hole, eating them, hiding them somewhere I won't be able to access them without a photograph or a souvenir. Someday I will be so old that the veins in my hands run under my skin like branches, I will have survived much worse and I will be pocked and scarred. Someday I will try to remember and it will hurt to try and I will recall my grandmother's Alzheimer's. It will hurt to try like winding a key that cannot be turned any more. The gears within will grind against each other and all I'll be able to show for it are digital representations of my life.
The weeks leading up to this day I dreamed about it, waking up in a sweat each time. Nightmares. I would be right here, waking up in my same old bed in boring, summer light. I would be checking my American phone for missed calls and there would be none. I would look around for people in my town and it would be empty. I would wish for my friends and flatmates to surround me and they would be unable to.
If I sleep with the best of intentions, perhaps the dreams will reverse themselves. Perhaps, as it happened with memories of High School once I had reached College, perhaps I will dream of my time in London now that I have left. I will dream of London and yesterday and the weeks and months before with the warmth and clarity of pure happiness, and I will wake up in a sweat.
"How was your semester?" It was good, I will say, and that will be completely insufficient in summing up everything I want to say but could never possibly condense into an answer.
rI was alone until I lived in a small flat with a large number of people; I was alone until I let them know me and I told them why I was sad and why I wasn't sure I could be happy.
I was alone until I opened up the chapter I am currently writing. I was alone until I felt love again, felt it with my full heart. I was alone until I felt cold next to them and they moved closer to give me warmth. I was, then, together.
There is something to be said for going away, for a vacation. The healing properties of distraction are rarely noted by doctors. Therapy, medicine, they will tell you. I say, go away, surround yourself with different folks. Learn a language and walk a new street. You will be alright.
Time urges progression, but it also will deceive you like a desperate thief. Time will pass by you while you sleep and when you wake up the next day, months will have passed. You will blink your eyes and you will be at home. You will feel as though the last few months have never happened. You will sum it up with pictures and vague memories, glimpses into your mind that you can never arrange into a clear picture. You will wish with your whole soul that you could have just had one more day, one more chance to make it feel real. You will wake up in an old room and feel like the old you.
There is something that needs fixing and it doesn't help that there is no one sleeping below me, next to me, or within ten yards of me. There is a vacuum somewhere deep within time that is constantly sucking memories into its black hole, eating them, hiding them somewhere I won't be able to access them without a photograph or a souvenir. Someday I will be so old that the veins in my hands run under my skin like branches, I will have survived much worse and I will be pocked and scarred. Someday I will try to remember and it will hurt to try and I will recall my grandmother's Alzheimer's. It will hurt to try like winding a key that cannot be turned any more. The gears within will grind against each other and all I'll be able to show for it are digital representations of my life.
The weeks leading up to this day I dreamed about it, waking up in a sweat each time. Nightmares. I would be right here, waking up in my same old bed in boring, summer light. I would be checking my American phone for missed calls and there would be none. I would look around for people in my town and it would be empty. I would wish for my friends and flatmates to surround me and they would be unable to.
If I sleep with the best of intentions, perhaps the dreams will reverse themselves. Perhaps, as it happened with memories of High School once I had reached College, perhaps I will dream of my time in London now that I have left. I will dream of London and yesterday and the weeks and months before with the warmth and clarity of pure happiness, and I will wake up in a sweat.
"How was your semester?" It was good, I will say, and that will be completely insufficient in summing up everything I want to say but could never possibly condense into an answer.
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