I’m back in Manhattan, and it’s pouring. And that’s pretty much how I feel anytime I come back. I mean, I always think that coming home is going to be such a relaxing break from the drama and work or whatever of Lawrence, but the minute I drive into down, I’m placed with all these negative memories of this place.
I know most people, after they leave a place or a certain period in their life, start thinking only positive thoughts about a place. However, it’s this ominous sense of dread every time I drive past. It’s this overwhelming collection of memories that drift in and out of my mind and it’s all I can take to not turn around and drive back (also the price of gas helps).
I’m not sure I’m ready to begin the semester yet. It’s a lot, already, to deal with the amount I work and having nothing else to go with it. But then, school. I don’t know if I can take it. I seem to get tired more easily, and frankly, I have a strong desire to achieve all the things I’ve always wanted in school (grades, extra-curriculars, some sort of honor society that has greek letters), but the effort that goes into achieving that…I’m just not sure I have it.
I do love it when it rains. A couple of years ago, so the summer before I started sophomore year in college, I remember sitting out in the rain, listening to music, for hours at night. Summer rains are the nicest, because they’re such a break from the intolerable heat. Of course, I was listening to some miserably depressing song (“My Skin” by Natalie Merchant), which you can watch here:
Actually, that’s a bit bizarre.
I’ve been angry a lot lately. I’m not exactly sure why that is, but I seem quite dissatisfied with many of the things I used to love so much. I think after a while, if I don’t have constant and erratic change to make me constantly adapt, I feel confined. I need spontaneous…something. Events, occurances…things that I don’t expect and terrify and excite me simultaneously.
But Lawrence is always the same. And lately, I think I am also. I’ve learned to bottle up most of the things I think about, simply for the lack of having people to tell. It’s one thing to have people you trust (which I have), but it’s another to have someone who can truly empathize or understand (of which I only have my family). I think that bottling of my emotions is making me turn sour. I think the biggest problem is even if I had someone who completely understood, there’s nothing to be able to CHANGE, and well, there we are.
You live until you die, and really what sort of life is that? I suppose it’s better than never living at all (which plenty of people do…live, but not really), but still. How many people really accomplish something? How many people are actually remembered?
On that depressing note, I end this. Because in the end, having written this doesn’t change anything either. It sort of, happened, and that’s really it.