Honestly? I haven't been writing much because in some ways, my life has been unbearable. And I just didn't know if I could trust myself with that. I want so much for this to just work. Maybe I've spent too much time trying to justify my circumstances, when, really, all I've needed to do was just live them out.
Moving back here was the product of a dubious epiphany, one that I shouldn't have trusted so blithely. (Never go with a hippie to a second location.) I'm not going to say that I've come to regret my decision, because (1) I really don't, and (2) sometimes I do, and I'm never quite sure how to deal with it.
It's this sickly sweet regression that I can't stand. This gradual willingness to conform to behaviors and ideals I once recoiled from. The things I've grown to care about, the things I thought I would champion and see to essential fruition, the things I've lost and let slip through my futile fingers. Some days I forget that I'm no longer 18 years old. I forget that I've spent more than 5 years living a different life, a life undeniably tied to the one I've come back to, the one I'm currently trying to carve out and vindicate. I forget that I no longer need certain things, and that I no longer have to prove certain others. I forget a lot of things.
So maybe my life hasn't been unbearable after all. It's been bearable -- viciously so. And, maybe, finally, I can no longer endure it.
Which kind of sounds like I'm about to slit my wrists. I am not. For all my whining, my heckling, my morose pondering... I kind of love life. My own is no great shakes, but it's... something. And that's all I need to start with.
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