i’m inconsolable. i am that person sitting in a chair in her room on a saturday night paralyzed by the feeling of homesickness for a place and a feeling that doesn’t even exist. i don’t even know what i want but i know i don’t want to wake up one more morning like this, i don’t want to fold my sailboat blanket and i don’t want to make my coffee and i don’t want to put that creamer in it and i don’t want to double check my bag for it’s contents and i don’t want to go to work or school and i don’t want to hear the voices of the people i care about the most through a little black machine that has absolutely no love for me. my phone is my enemy and this room is my bell jar. i never used to even have time to think about anything like this but my mind is my prison. i’m disgusted with myself for even spending the time writing these words and i am sick of all these beautiful streets, i’m sick of the cobblestone and i’m sick of the wonder in the faces of those who are seeing it for the first time, stopping only to ask me directions so they can buy a t-shirt or take a picture in front of something to commemorate the experience.
i want action without consequence, i want life without sacrifice, i want to work without constantly having to humble myself. i want love without feeling like i have to give up everything about myself and i want the hope that used to define me to sneak back in my body when i’m asleep in these grey sheets, under this roof, in a big empty house that is padlocked and protected because i am afraid of my own shadow.
