Tuesday, May 27, 2003
somebody i used to know
I've spent a lot of time forgetting, making room for new memories. I'm rediscovering the sense of home I've lost, and in some ways my sense of self. When you live faraway from your "home" you end up finding lost parts of yourself all over your house -- yearbooks, photo albums and last year's obsession tucked away in shelves and drawers. I'm not really sure what I'm trying to find, because all I'm doing is reliving the past through memories that are barely clinging. With each new scrap, a memory becomes alive and I relive that chain of events like yesterday but nothing is exactly the same the second time. Things are boring.
At home, life is boring because I lose my freedom. I'm twenty-one and I’m controlled. I'm policed by my mom -- every motion, every word. I've started reading as a way of escape. When I was little, I used to say that I never could read a book twice, and now I’m finding that books are always better the second or even the third time around. You notice things that you missed the first time. A passage begins to unfold your life in the words you wish you thought of. I mark every book I read with post-it notes in order to find the "important" passages again. It's all there for the next time I feel like reading it.
I hate writing in my books. I'm sure it’s my mother’s teaching being reinforced. It's funny, I'm trying so hard to let go of the past and to make some sort of future, but at the same time I can't let go of things I was taught when I was five. I guess there's no escaping -- physically but not mentally. It's all still waiting for the next time I visit.
¶ 10:12 PM
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I've spent a lot of time forgetting, making room for new memories. I'm rediscovering the sense of home I've lost, and in some ways my sense of self. When you live faraway from your "home" you end up finding lost parts of yourself all over your house -- yearbooks, photo albums and last year's obsession tucked away in shelves and drawers. I'm not really sure what I'm trying to find, because all I'm doing is reliving the past through memories that are barely clinging. With each new scrap, a memory becomes alive and I relive that chain of events like yesterday but nothing is exactly the same the second time. Things are boring.
At home, life is boring because I lose my freedom. I'm twenty-one and I’m controlled. I'm policed by my mom -- every motion, every word. I've started reading as a way of escape. When I was little, I used to say that I never could read a book twice, and now I’m finding that books are always better the second or even the third time around. You notice things that you missed the first time. A passage begins to unfold your life in the words you wish you thought of. I mark every book I read with post-it notes in order to find the "important" passages again. It's all there for the next time I feel like reading it.
I hate writing in my books. I'm sure it’s my mother’s teaching being reinforced. It's funny, I'm trying so hard to let go of the past and to make some sort of future, but at the same time I can't let go of things I was taught when I was five. I guess there's no escaping -- physically but not mentally. It's all still waiting for the next time I visit.
¶ 10:12 PM
|
