Mood: not too shabby I feel strangely out of place in my room, as if it's not home anymore, like I'm a relative who infrequently visits for an overnight stay. But then I think, soon this won't be my home, because upon moving out, some unspoken barrier will have been crossed. For the moment, I can feel justified in referring to this house as my own, with a solidarity of its ownership. I've been here for almost 22-years. And as I sit here, in the middle of this bedroom, I count down the days until I can no longer consider this house my home, nor this bedroom my bedroom. And by moving out, I break that seal permanently, because there is no going back, even if I, for some unforseen reason, do come back here. It would never be the same. I'd be like a guest, where I tread ever so cautiously around, feeling awkwardly aware not to leave messes once left so carelessly--the type left as a child for someone else to clean, as if it were some God-given right to expect others to organize my disorganizaton. I'm apparently not allowed to relish in the fact that things are going well and we have an apartment to inhabitate as of October 1st, because instead of relishing, I'm focused, as if by force, on the sad, parting truths of the matter. Living with someone day-in and day-out, you don't notice subtle changes that may occur in them, such as loss or gain of weight, or aging. In people you haven't seen for a while, these things are easy to pick up on. And I guess that's where one of my biggest fears lie. Living with my mom, I don't notice her face and body aging, because I see her daily. But when I move out of here shortly, and when I come back for visits, I'm going to inevitably and macarbely notice her face starting to age right before my very eyes. I don't want to see my mother age, because in a child's eyes, even a child nearly 24-years old, their parent's eventual death is seemingly so far off; impossible, even. But with each visit, a new wrinkle may start to form and undoubtedly remind me that all things and people must come to some form of end at some point. And with that, I hate myself. I hate how my mind malfunctions like some type of dvd player that endlessly seeks forward, towards the end of each movie placed in it. I want to be able to enjoy life without worrying about the other shoe dropping or people dying. But how? I have no idea.
A man's heart is stonier
3:11 a.m.//08.17.06
Sound: The minimal sound of a Dexter's Lab cartoon on low volume
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