Vultures.

It’s both discouraging and comforting to realize again and again that regardless of current happiness, progress, and time to scab and scar that there are just some things in life you will never get over. Not fully. You can come back to old fears  and ghostly sadnesses like they’re old friends whenever you want – – if it came from some place real. I like to conjure it all up in those rare quiet moments. My mood will  have been pleasant and stable, but my brain is ready to pounce the second I don’t have visual stimulation or some frenzied company. It’s cowardly, I know. But going to that place turns me inside out and locks me into this very specific cubby hole in my mind that not one other person could possibly understand what the interior walls look like. It is the only way I know how to introvert. And even then, I’m still an open book it seems.

I’ve tried to describe my deepest and most embarrassing insecurities to friends before. It doesn’t bother me to speak so candidly; mostly because they aren’t special or unique, just ruthlessly specific. I am a stickler for detail. To the core.

This is all very nice, but I will surely be interrupted soon. My room will flood with people who also live here. My concentration will be broken and the pensive, all-knowing stillness will be punctured with laughter and the familiar smell of fast food will invade the room.

At this time next year, I will most likely miss these particular interruptions more than I could ever imagine right now.

Also, I want to start feeling young again sometime soon. I have more responsibility than I ever mentally associated with the age of twenty-one. I would like to get drunk once in a while. I would like to use Manhattan for fun rather than business. I would like to feel physically attractive and be spontaneous. I would like to find it in myself to put tasks off, free of worry.

I can’t slow down. The momentum just sweeps me.