Lump
<< 11:03 p.m. - Friday, Apr. 06, 2007 >>
This city is different every year I live here. This brown house I always come home to, skipping the uneven concrete steps and hopping on the moss covered lawn to get here, to this door. My door: that opens to my room: that has all my things. I don�t know whether to cherish the material I drag along or to simply ditch it. It�s another weight on this young body. It�s a reminder of how long I have lived here. Changing in a creature; this coffee colored house that really sees no change itself, marks my evolution so poignantly. Sometimes I think it is enough to forget the story of what went on here. Easy to quietly erase the story of what was and focus on how things are now.

Because it wasn�t like this, and I wasn�t always this way. I�m quite aware at how obvious that statement is, but sometimes even that can be lost in the daily shuffle of ambitious plans.

I walk down Hawthorne, like I have perhaps a hundred times before, and think of the girl that was here before me. The one that made me, me. And it�s as if I�m suddenly submerged in a wave of old identities, like the tides coming in too fast and you get soaked in freezing water. These old skins don�t suit me, and honestly either does the current one.

The way the city looks at night is virtually the same, but in the context of who I was with and what season, the view is made radically different. That moon lights up this maple tree in front of my house almost exactly as it did when we moved here; but here in this set of circumstances, all I want, is to not be here anymore.

Maybe it is just that I don�t know how to deal with that. Walking upon the graves of memories, long gone. People and relationships so faded out of my current life, that it becomes a struggle to remember what it was that we shared before � before things were the way they are. This city is not the one you know, because here, it�s mine. Without the people I love, the people that know the old me's, I�m freer to become something else.

But what�s that? Driven, without boundaries, and guilty.