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It's unusual for me to be melancholy about the past.
Usually, my mind is guilty about the past. I get memories in little flashes, thinking back to old times, old things, and almost always in a particularly vivid sense. If they're bad ones, I snap myself out of it, almost get the urge to double up on myself, mourn and apologize to nothing over and over, try to make peace while running as fast as I can from it. I don't usually reminisce much about how I used to be, whether I was happier or not; sometimes I have chats with my inner child of sorts, try to maintain an relationship that's awkward at best. Mostly, it's the present in which I'm happy... doing things that put a smile on my face, whether it's biking or swimming or chatting up a pretty girl, or entertaining myself by being a bogeyman and reciting cryptic, context-less pieces to unwarned acquaintances, mini-soliloquies that my mind picks up to use. Even if my brain isn't always rooted in the present, it's where it flourishes.
There are a couple things I look forward to, sometimes. When I was younger, I looked forward to going back to Canada, seeing my mom again, whom I'd canonized somewhat in my head - probably for lack of exposure. I wanted to be back where I felt at home, where I had my old, good memories, and be away from that hideous red-brick-and-concrete school. Be home, where it was safe.
I don't have much of a home right now. I have a room to myself in a shared space, where I do (to my credit) get lovely warm meals, which I can smell cooking in the kitchen as I speak. I have parents who still support me as much as I can while I do my best to grow into a form that's self-sustainable and who could someday give back all that they've supplied me, so I can be an independent human being. I have a room, a single room filled with boxes which I'm putting all my books into. Books, my way of keeping memories of the past with me wherever I go.
I don't have a space yet. I don't have a home. I expect I won't have a home until I make something of myself. I have parents' houses to stay in sometimes, to get away from it all, and if all goes well I'll have a room, a cluster house on the grounds of Uvic (where I got accepted by the way, I suppose that's news, though I reckon there're few people who haven't already been informed), another room within a shared space. Sharing spaces until I earn my own, I think; my own privacy and own fortress.
I reckon that's as good a goal as any. I want a place that I don't share with people. I want a room to sit down with friends when I want to invite them over, have fun with them and fulfill my social obligations and needs. I want to know how to cook my own food, to have a stable breakfast filled with things that I make. I want to have a view that's, if not beautiful, that at least isn't hideous; a place outside that I can look at with a small smile. If I have to pay rent, it's from what I earn. And how I earn it is dictated by me, and it's not work but an expression of me and my art.
There, that's a good lofty goal. I suppose I could aim higher, but I'm only beginning to learn to dream again, stirring my brain and waking myself up from guilt and sadness and anxiety and discomfort... awakening the child in me who used to dream.
As I stow things away into boxes, I see remnants of that child in the cartoon characters he used to love. The action figures are all given away by now, put to use or broken apart. I play with grown-up toys now, which has used up all my imagination... no way to use it now, to guide me on in my own private stage-plays. But here they are still, the old books I loved, Calvin and Hobbes and Dilbert and the Far Side and perhaps Frog and Toad's in there somewhere... or maybe I stored that one away already.
I look at these books in front of me, trying to find a place for them, filling up empty boxes, and my heart begins to ache as I pick up a book, read the author's introduction, talk about his life of drawing comics: Bill Waterson, a hero of my childhood. I wonder what he's doing now, resist the urge to do an online search for him. And I feel a black mood come over me, and I put on suitable music for such an occasion, and I dwell on sad thoughts.
It's unusual for me to be melancholy about the past. Worried about it, certainly. Thinking back and remembering unhappy thoughts, perhaps. But melancholy seems to be an emotion that springs from memories of good things, memories of things long gone. I got off the phone with a childhood friend, Eric, a friend from Galiano that I used to have sleepovers with. I remember us both wondering if everyone around us was a robot except us. I remember us discussing dreams and playing Nintendo 64 and reading Calvin and Hobbes. And now he's going off to Montreal and so much for us getting together, our paths are so divergent these days, and I haven't spoken to his younger brother in years.
I'm twenty-one years old. In a week and a half I'll be twenty-two. I wanted twenty-one to be a cornerstone, and perhaps it is, but it is not the penultimate me. I remember a spirit medium saying my life would change dramatically in a few years from then, when I was miserable and at a particular low point in my life. I suppose change comes gradually, and I am changing. But I'm twenty-one for only a week and a half longer and I am not yet where I want to be. I'm an adult and my greatest deception was the thought that I could be done with the bullshit that came with being a teenager. Instead I'm in my twenties and I've been more lost than I ever could be. I get people, friends of my parents, congratulating me for getting in and okay, thank you, but is this what I want? Anxiety that pervaded my time in Camosun washes over me again, and threatens to bind me in strings of guilt and horror.
I don't hide as much as I used to. That's a plus, I suppose. It's safe to say I'm almost, almost finished with LJ RP as a time-sink. Hell, one character in one comm is enough for me, and I'm not managing that very well. But oh well. I've got a summer job in a week, and that'll keep me busy. Keeping busy is good.
For now, it's keeping busy and trying to keep relaxed, trying to soak up my comforts. But seeing my old books and old memories and old memories of happiness packed into boxes, ready to be shipped off to somewhere I'll forget about them, isn't doing me any favors there. It's unusual for me to be melancholy about the past, but that's because I'm not used to preserving it. Now and then I'll stumble upon an old relic and take the time to reminisce, like now, but it's rare for me to be my own antiquarian; I rely on my parents and relatives for that, collecting pieces I've written that are meaningful to them.
It's time for me to get back to work. My new quarters is not big enough for my past; it can't hold my dreams in it, not quite. I need to stow them away somewhere that they might be safe. As for my new, future room (that isn't fully guarranteed, not yet) I doubt it'll be enough for me, for the four years I might live in them. (It is four years of university I'm preparing myself for, isn't it?) It might be a good enough temporary living space, where I live and quarrel with strangers, but it is hardly a future goal. Just another waiting area, like an airport, while I try to make things right, earn my own home by my own art and burgeoning skill. Maybe a small, small place of comfort.
Back to work. Back to packing things away. Perhaps I'll stow my melancholy somewhere there as well, secret and safe, until I find time to dwell in it once more.
Usually, my mind is guilty about the past. I get memories in little flashes, thinking back to old times, old things, and almost always in a particularly vivid sense. If they're bad ones, I snap myself out of it, almost get the urge to double up on myself, mourn and apologize to nothing over and over, try to make peace while running as fast as I can from it. I don't usually reminisce much about how I used to be, whether I was happier or not; sometimes I have chats with my inner child of sorts, try to maintain an relationship that's awkward at best. Mostly, it's the present in which I'm happy... doing things that put a smile on my face, whether it's biking or swimming or chatting up a pretty girl, or entertaining myself by being a bogeyman and reciting cryptic, context-less pieces to unwarned acquaintances, mini-soliloquies that my mind picks up to use. Even if my brain isn't always rooted in the present, it's where it flourishes.
There are a couple things I look forward to, sometimes. When I was younger, I looked forward to going back to Canada, seeing my mom again, whom I'd canonized somewhat in my head - probably for lack of exposure. I wanted to be back where I felt at home, where I had my old, good memories, and be away from that hideous red-brick-and-concrete school. Be home, where it was safe.
I don't have much of a home right now. I have a room to myself in a shared space, where I do (to my credit) get lovely warm meals, which I can smell cooking in the kitchen as I speak. I have parents who still support me as much as I can while I do my best to grow into a form that's self-sustainable and who could someday give back all that they've supplied me, so I can be an independent human being. I have a room, a single room filled with boxes which I'm putting all my books into. Books, my way of keeping memories of the past with me wherever I go.
I don't have a space yet. I don't have a home. I expect I won't have a home until I make something of myself. I have parents' houses to stay in sometimes, to get away from it all, and if all goes well I'll have a room, a cluster house on the grounds of Uvic (where I got accepted by the way, I suppose that's news, though I reckon there're few people who haven't already been informed), another room within a shared space. Sharing spaces until I earn my own, I think; my own privacy and own fortress.
I reckon that's as good a goal as any. I want a place that I don't share with people. I want a room to sit down with friends when I want to invite them over, have fun with them and fulfill my social obligations and needs. I want to know how to cook my own food, to have a stable breakfast filled with things that I make. I want to have a view that's, if not beautiful, that at least isn't hideous; a place outside that I can look at with a small smile. If I have to pay rent, it's from what I earn. And how I earn it is dictated by me, and it's not work but an expression of me and my art.
There, that's a good lofty goal. I suppose I could aim higher, but I'm only beginning to learn to dream again, stirring my brain and waking myself up from guilt and sadness and anxiety and discomfort... awakening the child in me who used to dream.
As I stow things away into boxes, I see remnants of that child in the cartoon characters he used to love. The action figures are all given away by now, put to use or broken apart. I play with grown-up toys now, which has used up all my imagination... no way to use it now, to guide me on in my own private stage-plays. But here they are still, the old books I loved, Calvin and Hobbes and Dilbert and the Far Side and perhaps Frog and Toad's in there somewhere... or maybe I stored that one away already.
I look at these books in front of me, trying to find a place for them, filling up empty boxes, and my heart begins to ache as I pick up a book, read the author's introduction, talk about his life of drawing comics: Bill Waterson, a hero of my childhood. I wonder what he's doing now, resist the urge to do an online search for him. And I feel a black mood come over me, and I put on suitable music for such an occasion, and I dwell on sad thoughts.
It's unusual for me to be melancholy about the past. Worried about it, certainly. Thinking back and remembering unhappy thoughts, perhaps. But melancholy seems to be an emotion that springs from memories of good things, memories of things long gone. I got off the phone with a childhood friend, Eric, a friend from Galiano that I used to have sleepovers with. I remember us both wondering if everyone around us was a robot except us. I remember us discussing dreams and playing Nintendo 64 and reading Calvin and Hobbes. And now he's going off to Montreal and so much for us getting together, our paths are so divergent these days, and I haven't spoken to his younger brother in years.
I'm twenty-one years old. In a week and a half I'll be twenty-two. I wanted twenty-one to be a cornerstone, and perhaps it is, but it is not the penultimate me. I remember a spirit medium saying my life would change dramatically in a few years from then, when I was miserable and at a particular low point in my life. I suppose change comes gradually, and I am changing. But I'm twenty-one for only a week and a half longer and I am not yet where I want to be. I'm an adult and my greatest deception was the thought that I could be done with the bullshit that came with being a teenager. Instead I'm in my twenties and I've been more lost than I ever could be. I get people, friends of my parents, congratulating me for getting in and okay, thank you, but is this what I want? Anxiety that pervaded my time in Camosun washes over me again, and threatens to bind me in strings of guilt and horror.
I don't hide as much as I used to. That's a plus, I suppose. It's safe to say I'm almost, almost finished with LJ RP as a time-sink. Hell, one character in one comm is enough for me, and I'm not managing that very well. But oh well. I've got a summer job in a week, and that'll keep me busy. Keeping busy is good.
For now, it's keeping busy and trying to keep relaxed, trying to soak up my comforts. But seeing my old books and old memories and old memories of happiness packed into boxes, ready to be shipped off to somewhere I'll forget about them, isn't doing me any favors there. It's unusual for me to be melancholy about the past, but that's because I'm not used to preserving it. Now and then I'll stumble upon an old relic and take the time to reminisce, like now, but it's rare for me to be my own antiquarian; I rely on my parents and relatives for that, collecting pieces I've written that are meaningful to them.
It's time for me to get back to work. My new quarters is not big enough for my past; it can't hold my dreams in it, not quite. I need to stow them away somewhere that they might be safe. As for my new, future room (that isn't fully guarranteed, not yet) I doubt it'll be enough for me, for the four years I might live in them. (It is four years of university I'm preparing myself for, isn't it?) It might be a good enough temporary living space, where I live and quarrel with strangers, but it is hardly a future goal. Just another waiting area, like an airport, while I try to make things right, earn my own home by my own art and burgeoning skill. Maybe a small, small place of comfort.
Back to work. Back to packing things away. Perhaps I'll stow my melancholy somewhere there as well, secret and safe, until I find time to dwell in it once more.
