8:03 p.m. | 2005-07-12
Pretty the World
It's happening again, this life of mine.
Things are a movie and I only wish I could show you how pretty they are. I'm surrounding myself with people ten years (or more) older than I am and I'm loving it. I'm running from obligation to obligation and my room is a mess. I haven't been home for more than 5 hours in a few days. Everything feels like such a stereotype, and I wish I could put into words how I feel about it.
Because the summer nights are like they are supposed to be (and most pretend they are). Sunny days and fluffy clouds blowing by as a warmth seeps into your skin a beer in your hand and a smile on your facing sitting and watching the sunset. The sunsets are beautiful here. Our downtown is so picturesque, especially when framed by a pink and orange sunset.
And then there's me, young, and full, and completely stuffed with things like love and tears and emotion and hopes. And I've on the verge of all of these, but not a total of any of them, listening to music loud and music soft and NPR and punk rock.
I've been told more in the past week (as I've felt like I was honestly acting more like myself than any other time) that I'm incredibly weird. It was never meant as an insult, it's just that it was meant in the very least. They're right, I'm not average, I'm not normal, I'm not...what usually is. And I'm pushing so hard to live this perfect and usual life.
When I'm 40 and sitting with my child talking about life and what I've done will I have cool stories? Or will all my nights be mundane and full of nice dinners and sunset walks? I don't have many stories about keg stands and drunken trips to Vegas or deep and undying loves that left me so bitter.
What's funny is that the thing I've been trying so hard at is the thing I've been failing at most. Being me.