Pretending.

Things used to be normal way back when. Sometimes I think pretending is a much better way of living than the here and now.

-A Perspective

Homesick.

There is a lot that could be said about the past. Some good, some bad. Driving down the once familiar streets of Worcester, I wanted to remember the happy times; birthdays, Christmas, and summer. And yet, all I could recall was pain, fear, and shame. Perhaps it was because some of the most frightening moments occurred while I called Fales Street home, perhaps it was because I drove through that once bright and cheery neighborhood as a now motherless child. It stung, and it throbbed. I don't even know if I could identify "it"...I guess it could be categorized as the the overall atmosphere of visiting a prior life as a different person. It was uncomfortable. I hated the way my old home was stripped of the old oak tree, the way Burncoat Pizza had a flashy new sign, how the Everetts had not moved even a single stepping stone. All of it was provocative. Arrogantly exposing itself, hardly aware of the displeasure it brought me. Those were my favorite days. Those were my most cherished years, and it will never be the same. I was bothered that I couldn't remember the wallpaper pattern in the old dining room like I once did. (I did eventually; small cherry blossoms floating in a sea of white shimmer). But why couldn't I remember it? Because I have not thought about it for quite some time. The walls that held my childhood, the doors that hid my tears, the windows that freed my pain had all been forgotten. To know something so intimately and then hardly recognize it is both depressing and captivating. Sick to my stomach with memories of sadness, I was more than grateful to leave that old neighborhood. However, I was even more sad as we drove back to Jersey because now I long for those days to return more than ever before. I want the days of lemonade stands, babysitters, and Mommy's hugs. But more than that, I don't want to forget my memories.

Somedays the most that you hoped you do
Is step in your leather shoes
And make your way around the block
Days that tired mother of ours
And living has made her sad
How she wishes she could stop the clock

-A Perspective

Conspicuously Mysterious.

Road trips. Exploration. Windmills. One may wonder why those three words earn the honor of being placed in a lowly blog. One reason: mystery. Yes, ladies and gents, I am intrigued by the unknown. Road trips mean traveling to new places, exploring what was once just a dream. If you're lucky, you may just stumble upon a giant beast of power swinging its giant arms around and around, slicing through the air moment after moment. Why are these random structures so interesting to me? Probably the same reason why some individuals enjoy the crashing of waves, or view from the peak. It forces you to stop. It forces you to be in awe of something much greater than yourself. It forces you to remember that you are but a mere human, incapable and mostly unaware of the vast greatness of the endless universe.

Road trips bring us to the exploration of windmills, because we all need to reminded of our smallness.

-A Perspective

Never Ready to Leave.

I am convinced that my heart lives in the wooden panels of set props, and my soul hides in the shadows of the audience, because I feel most alive when I am on stage.

That chapter is over. Curtain.

-A Perspective