(Today's Beautiful Source: Tracelegacy)
This place, it almost seemed familiar. When I closed my eyes that all-to-familiar feeling would come rushing back. For lack of better options I have come to think of it as the fresh-start feeling. Feeling, emotion, opportunity. Whatever you choose to call it. I suppose that's what it was.
See, I'm an addict. Most of us are. Alcohol, novels, food, sex, adrenaline. We have something we turn to again and again. For me it was the "new life." The places I have gone looking for it... The forms it has taken. I have been saved by too many religions, entered too many love affairs, started too many diets. Each time re-convincing myself that this time I had found the one that would make all the difference. Time and again I have ripped myself to pieces for the thrill of embraced opportunity. Opportunity I forced to be there.
Why would this time be any different. Did I think because I was aware more then ever that I could break out? Addictions don't work that way, Sweetheart. I'm indulging in my favourite form of the hit, and I know it.
Changing locations. Replanting. The rest of you know it as moving. I have done it a few to many times. I have been welcomed by the good neighbor committee many times. Assured them as many that I was hoping to settle. And I was. Oh, was I. But before to long things weren't new any more. Not exciting. The streets had been explored, the company met. Things would start to feel stale. Often it was an apartment of my own. Occasionally a quaint small town. Maybe it's that I want chances on the horizon. Or maybe I feel a need to flee from every little mistake.
Today the street is empty. Dead leaves rustle on this sidewalk. I hate the onset of winter. Everything seems so dead, so comfortable. Not in the least vibrant. Hibernation. That's the word. I hate it.
This new street in this new place. With all this newness even the dismal sky can't completely suffocate the thrill. I should be inside unpacking. I've found the cutest bungalow just outside town. I think I'll have time to explore what I always believe I want to. Painting, running, a little gardening.
"If you're still around," my new found pessimist murmurs skeptically in my ear. I ignore it. No need to further suffocate this chance of a high.
These are the posts where I let you glimpse random pages from my scribbles of the past. Raw, young and often unfinished. Remember, with this piece, fiction is often prevalent...
2 comments:
This is amazing! How old were you when you wrote this?
Thank-you! nineteen or twenty judging by the rest of the notebook :).
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