June 8, 2013
My mind likes inconsistency. My moods are prone to swimming in oceans and playing with tides. They submerge and resurface from the waves, like I do in dreams. Sometimes, like today, they dive indefinitely, as if they intended to drown. Last night, in a drunken daze, I mentioned that this was the most precious summer I’ve had so far. And in many ways, and many times, I think that is not at all wrong. It is completely new, and it had been a while since I experienced new. I must carry myself with new strengths, sometimes strengths that I’ve had to forcefully provoke. I have to look at life with new eyes, live by new philosophies, because for the first time in many years, if ever, I am fighting to survive a world, a life – the one that exists outside the chimera of youth. And I have been successful so far. Yes, I’ve had to learn how to steer a boat and tame the waves to stay afloat, but I’ve been successful. However, days like today have a weary dread. Not even cigarettes are alluring. The solitary chirp of birds is melancholic; the breeze is bitter, frigid. I read but I pause… not so much because of overwhelming thoughts, but overwhelming emotions. They confound me, and I am left staring at the ceiling, with hollow gaze, motionlessly idle, as if I was waiting for my moods to resurface with that desperate gasp of a frightened warrior. But I dwell with turbulent seas; my arena is the antagonist itself, as powerful as tornadoes. And I’m pierced by an ice pick of nostalgia. I miss the sticky heat of an island summer, the buzzing of mosquitoes in your ears, the pallor of clean blue skies, the relentless motors, the rancid smell of toxic fumes, the sound of flittering leaves on trees, the smell of home cooked meals, the sound of propped wine corks, the chimes of opened doors, the pungent scent of my grandmother’s perfume, the homely inertia, the sound of the ocean, the crisp odor of salt water, the echo of waves, the impertinence of sandy feet and cars and floors, the roughness of beach hair, the tired weight of lazy afternoons, the voice of my father, the voice of my sister, the voice of my mother, the barks of my dogs, the drowsy meows of my cats, the familiarity and slang of my language. Today I miss my home.
My mind likes inconsistency. My moods are prone to swimming in oceans and playing with tides. They submerge and resurface from the waves, like I do in dreams. Sometimes, like today, they dive indefinitely, as if they intended to drown. Last night, in a drunken daze, I mentioned that this was the most precious summer I’ve had so far. And in many ways, and many times, I think that is not at all wrong. It is completely new, and it had been a while since I experienced new. I must carry myself with new strengths, sometimes strengths that I’ve had to forcefully provoke. I have to look at life with new eyes, live by new philosophies, because for the first time in many years, if ever, I am fighting to survive a world, a life – the one that exists outside the chimera of youth. And I have been successful so far. Yes, I’ve had to learn how to steer a boat and tame the waves to stay afloat, but I’ve been successful. However, days like today have a weary dread. Not even cigarettes are alluring. The solitary chirp of birds is melancholic; the breeze is bitter, frigid. I read but I pause… not so much because of overwhelming thoughts, but overwhelming emotions. They confound me, and I am left staring at the ceiling, with hollow gaze, motionlessly idle, as if I was waiting for my moods to resurface with that desperate gasp of a frightened warrior. But I dwell with turbulent seas; my arena is the antagonist itself, as powerful as tornadoes. And I’m pierced by an ice pick of nostalgia. I miss the sticky heat of an island summer, the buzzing of mosquitoes in your ears, the pallor of clean blue skies, the relentless motors, the rancid smell of toxic fumes, the sound of flittering leaves on trees, the smell of home cooked meals, the sound of propped wine corks, the chimes of opened doors, the pungent scent of my grandmother’s perfume, the homely inertia, the sound of the ocean, the crisp odor of salt water, the echo of waves, the impertinence of sandy feet and cars and floors, the roughness of beach hair, the tired weight of lazy afternoons, the voice of my father, the voice of my sister, the voice of my mother, the barks of my dogs, the drowsy meows of my cats, the familiarity and slang of my language. Today I miss my home.
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