In stark contrast to my disorganized life in undergrad, I find myself living a civilized, domesticated life now. I might even go so far as to call it organized, but then the world might die collectively laughing at that.
Deal is, this is kind of alien to me, to have a place for everything and keeping everything in its place. Or to have a time for work and a time for play. And a knitting basket full of so many different coloured balls of wool. Kind of feels like living someone else’s life, on occasion.
And when shreds of the past slip in, my subconscious revolts against the present. I go to a place where it feels like I’m still wanderlust from April 2008. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Some other times, I feel out of touch with how I used to express myself. The emotions seem new. The calmness is strange, the lack of constant agitation feels strange.
I fear losing who I am, forgetting the lessons learned at the school of hard knocks, leaving all that behind for something that’ll only end up being fleeting.
I often feel the urge to create something beautiful, but feel crippled because I have forgotten how.
Things I’d taken for granted previously now feel scary. There’s little that’s familiar that I can hold on to.
And that’s why I’m here, hours before something kind of important, blogging. Because I’m scared and this feels familiar and comfortable.