Here’s to coming home. I’ve returned to my daily life of course, everything has changed; slightly shifted, slightly off-kilter. Between the four walls of my room, I used to see a vibrant, thriving ecosystem that spurred my creativity and nurtured my desire to experience. Now, a grey lens filter has been attached the camera of my life. Maybe for that dramatic cinematic effect? The room that once was is now lack-luster, growing dour, and I suspect I’m next in succession.
I struggle to remember the last time I wrote. A desire to write that used to fuel my mind with ideas and devoured my time, has simply left me. The gears in my head have stopped churning and as time proceeds, the spiders find enough solace inside to declare home. I try to turn the key and ignite the spark plug of my creativity, but no voltage has proven sufficiency.
I’ve gotten a job, after what feels like a groundhog deemed long winter season of searching. Naturally, it’s exhausting. Yet another job in a field where the people seem to hold the complete opposite values I do. Every shift leaves me unsettled and unsatisfied. Is this what this year will amount to? I tried, I tried to find positions that align with my goals, surrounded by people that would pique my interest. Unfortunately, as always, their interests are never piqued by me. Naturally, that’s exhausting as well.
I fail to exercise these days. Frankly, I lack the desire to. I’d rather be outside, walking in nature than inside a dark, anxiety-inducing gym, full of strangers. However, I continue to fail by not being able to get myself outside. I use bribery to get myself to drive to the gym. After the gym, I can smoke a cigarette. But even the cigarettes don’t satisfy me like they used to. They evoke a sickening desire to return to the sea with my friends, smoking, talking. Once I remember that, I must put the bittersweet cigarette out and lament everything that has escaped me.
Even reading has become a bore. Of course, I still read, but that eternal flame to know what’s on the next page, that aching burn to know what the author intended, has left me like everything else. To read The Picture of Dorian Gray in Spain on more time consumes me.
If time could stay still, I would choose sitting outside the hostel in Barcelona with Charly and Harry, rolling, smoking, and laughing, all knowing that our times together we’re officially coming to an end soon. However, time is like a never ending freeway with everyones final destinations marked on big green exit signs. I don’t want my car to break down when I haven’t even seen what the rest of the way is like.
I know what I need. I need something to change. I need leave. I need to leave the four walls I’ve outgrown. A place of prosperity of the past now cannot provide me the comfort it once did and I can’t keep expecting it to magically do so. Insanity is repeating an exact action over and over while expecting different results. I can’t let insanity infiltrate my life, not yet.
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