I always tend to write these things when I’m not in the best of places. I don’t know what it is about these moods that makes me want to put thoughts into words…maybe it’s some urge to put the introspection into a concrete form so I make those feelings real. Though, doing this is more or less just a More Efficient Way to Shout Into the Void (much like Twitter), but it matters to me regardless.
I wonder how I’ll feel a few days later when I come back and read this stuff, because I’m always super worried that it comes off as really douchey and self-important. Which isn’t my intent, to be clear, but I’m sure there’s some aspect of these blog posts that seem like that versus if I’m just normally talking about it, mostly because I can go over and edit what I’m going to say, so it sounds Super Planned Out and Articulate when it’s really just me stream-of-consciousness writing for a spurt of fifteen minutes and then staring at what I’ve written for thirty.
See? All that nothingness between the end of that sentence and this one? About five minutes of me just looking at the blinking cursor and seeing if I got a text on my phone because I thought I heard it go off. But in this format, you can’t see any of that! Nothing interrupts this thought from the last one, unless you acknowledge it, which you don’t, because that’s weird. Can you imagine what your favorite novel would be like if halfway through a chapter there’s just an insert that’s like “I went off to get coffee and talk a walk because this chapter was pissing me off, by the way.” That would be infuriating, but I’m sure there’s a novel out there that probably does something like that.
I’ve written about the feeling of temporariness before, so I don’t want to sound like a broken record, but I can’t seem to get it out of my head. The first time I think I found some bliss in fleeting moments; this just feels like the opposite.
I’ve been a homebody for a long time: college was college, not home. Now home doesn’t even feel like home anymore. It just feels like a place, a place I live between semesters, not a home.
Which is such a screwed up feeling, honestly. Like, of course this is home! I live here, my bed is here, my things are here, my family is here. Everything around me logically says that this is home, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
I by no means want to grow up faster than I have to—lord knows I’m not in a rush to pay taxes and crap like that—but I want more than ever to have a place that feels like mine. Home has become “my parents’ house”. The dorm is the dorm: I can make it comfortable, but it’s temporary living—I dress it up like it’s mine for two semesters and then I’m done with it.
I don’t know what it is that I really want. I don’t want to romanticize the future, because that’s just as toxic as drowning in nostalgia, but I just want some stability of my own making for once. I want to feel like I’ve really earned something. Like four years of college wasn’t a waste.
I’m lost, I guess. For the longest time I thought I knew what I wanted to do, now I just want to do Something once I’m out of school. I have no idea what that something is, I have no way of figuring that out until it’s there, so all I can do right now is put all that I can into what I’m doing now, and just hope for the best.
Whatever happens happens.