It's back:
The insomnia...
The all too familiar evenings finding their beginning and end nestled under tousled sheets, counting the fluorescent stars that once upon a time, lived on the ceiling of this room.
It's back.
And I suppose I should have anticipated or perhaps expected that it would be here, now. Now that my life seems to have truly come full circle. Now that I once again am a completely stressed out, manic, overly cerebral and tragically emotional mess. Welcome back, Insomnia. Welcome back.
And so it goes, that as the countless thoughts about life and relationships and my necessity for toothpaste flutter about inside this ticking mind, I try my best to distract, entertain, and seek out productivity. Only it's in these early hours of the morning when it seems like productive tasks are anything but. And so it goes: I will once again reorganize my sock drawer, I will write material for the book I will most likely never publish, I will re read my favorite passages from Pride and Prejudice and e.e. cummings poems, I will facebook stalk, catch up on e-mails (which actually is productive) and I will furnish my imaginary future home at Pottery Barn and Anthropologie online.
I will also most likely consume about 8 clementines and enter into Vitamin C overload. This also may actually be productive, or rather... another completely disturbed habit.
I've got problems.
But that full circle moment. I felt it tonight sitting in this practically empty room, feeling like I did nearly a year ago as I spent my last nights in my college apartment. The fact that we're selling this house in which I now live, the house in which I grew up, kind of feels bizarre. Fresh paint prohibits me from any sort of decoration and I am surrounded by bare white walls. The echo is unreal- my voice seems larger than life inside these walls only I feel completely tiny and insignificant simultaneously. This room, once filled with color and light and unique memory, slowly feels stripped bare, and I feel dwarfed inside its smallness.
It's funny how transitions in life are marked by such transparent and concrete moments. The physical lack of material things marks this complete lack of stability... the complete uncertainty of where I'm headed or where I'll even be living 4 months from now- and what that space will look like. Yet there's something exciting about starting fresh... I'm so tempted to rid myself of so much of what I already have and begin anew, a sort of metaphor for this next phase of my life. Only it's scary as hell. No one prepares you for this whole grown up thing. I really hate it. Gosh, that does sound completely childish, huh? Well...
Being a grown up is overrated.
And leaving this room, even though I've left it before, just feels insane. I feel like I'm giving up a piece of myself that I'll never completely get back. Maybe it's because the idea of home is so at the core of all I believe in, and all that provides comfort and peace of mind. You up root your home and where are you then? Back in the midst? Back in the freakin' limbo of life like this entire past year has been? Perhaps I need to just get used to the likes of the nomad existence... maybe then I'll be at peace knowing I'll never completely be at home in the world.
It's like Jim Lambie once said:
"Right now I want to go further inside, deep inside. And I'm taking the outside with me, I'm taking it all with me...all the titles, all your gloves, all your mirrors, all your record collections, the lot. And when it comes back out into the real world, your world, it'll feel familiar, but it won't be."
...feeling something like that.
more to come.
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