I can’t help but miss my life from 2 months ago. There were plenty of things wrong with it, but the most important things were oh-so right.
I can’t stand living in a suburb with no sidewalks. I hate the fact that I’m becoming more socially paranoid than the hermit crabs I brought home from the beach last week. I miss seeing familiar faces. And I miss having someone to talk to.
It’s hard not to feel even more secluded, when, the person who was with me every day for over a year, barely talks to me at all.
I hate that I lost so much. More so, I just wish I didn’t think about it so often.
I guess that’s just what happens when you completely uproot your life on a whim, and expect everything to be okay.
and the bridges we burned might be all we had to keep us from drowning. but at least we had this time; and i’d like to think we’re better off for it. i’ll remember this. sometimes broken things make the best building supplies. and we’ll keep on building. hearts aren’t made of glass, they’re made of muscle and blood and something else. and they don’t so much as break as bend and tear. we have what it takes to keep it together; and move on.
any relationship that matters - a friendship, a family, a romance, a band - anything - is a perilous and fragile thing because along with all the amazing experiences and creations that can come from something so intimate and exhausting comes the possibility for things to crumble and shatter or whither and die. when that happens, it’s easy to forget what was precious amidst all the disaster. we should always carry our history with us but never let it bury us.
Today was tough. This helped a little bit.
I’m just waiting for the day when I know I’ll be alright.
“The American police are involved in psychological warfare against those Americans who don’t frighten them with imposing papers and threats. There’s no defense. Poor people have to expect to have their lives interfered with ad infinitum by these neurotic busybodies. It’s a Victorian police force; it peers out of musty windows and wants to inquire about everything, and can make crimes if the crimes don’t exist to their satisfaction.”—On The Road - Jack Kerouac