My life is lifeless. There is ambition overflowing inside of me, spilling out into sticky arts and crafts as I try to apply my energy to the role I've been thrust into, the job I've thrust myself into. My heart breaks into pieces, confused chaotic shattering, love for the boy all my own crushing the desires of a young individual. Music evoking joy, nostalgic wonder, painful sadness, empty loneliness. Maturity once an optional responsibility has become a nagging requisite, keeping fun to more manageable levels so as not to excite the endorphin glands.
All our childish ways, we out grew them to raise a child. I fear this is a faulty method.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Tomorrow I will start packing again. It will be the sixth time since we left the west coast. The home I still think of as home. The home I compare our new homes against, and subsequently find our new homes lacking. Six times have I constructed boxes and filled them with my ever changing wardrobe. Six times have I sworn to give up my habit of shopping. Unfortunately my habit is also my therapy. To relieve the desire to shop, I can only shop. It is not purely fact, there are other methods to quell my fabriced soul...but none so readily available nor so familiar as a well stocked sale rack of shoes, size 8. And so for the sixth time I will tape over my possessions with hope of a large closet. Hopes of new friends, new favorite eateries, new tree-lined streets to welcome us for evening strolls. Hopes of a new home.