the unbearable strangeness

I do not feel almost 23.
it’s probably years of loss, piling up. and continuous decay. they say that men grow more handsome with age, as women wither.
i’m feeling old today.
the weight of good love and its strange, unexpected road blocks.
i realize that good love is not a cure. i realize that even perfect love is not a cure.
it’s an uphill battle to keep the things you need and want most.
i’m not a pessimist anymore. but the rose colored glassed were seemingly smacked off with harsh words from a family that I thought finally wanted me.

and it’s not self pity.
there was an underlying hope in the life of a college student. dreams that are dashed the second you come down from your ivory tower.
a world where things are impossible and judicial systems keep you wrapped up with fines and court dates that never seem to solidify.
and people’s own frustrations with no avenues to go down. the sweetness you posses does you no good. is hardened and tortured the only way to be in a "grown up" world? 

the pessimism comes in waves, to pull you under.
there is hope in love.
but hopelessness found in its undeniable flaws. not the flaws of the lover, or the time you share – but forces unstoppable. calls that have to be made, obligations, and the doubts that arise out of misdirected anger and frustration.
no mistakes were made when i chose you. when i chose a stationary position over a nomadic one.
of course i mourn the loss of a freedom that came with wandering. with being lost and at home all at once.
but i chose to be here.
and to be unmoving for a while.

it’s this transition.
it’s this lack of a place to belong.
i used to belong nowhere, which was fine. because i was everywhere.
and when you’re constantly moving – you belong where you are. every move is right.
but what happens when you get everything you’ve ever wanted. yet the cavates are there – in insensitive words and sisters who will never understand.

the billboards in town speak to me.
there are days when their messages seem possible. and others where my future is incredibly nebulous.
and after contractual obligations are over – is there time to roam? is there an inevitable cleave that is to happen?
maybe those horror movies and ghost stories don’t scare you because you never cared enough to fear death? i think maybe living in routine does that? 
i have too many questions.
and hearts pound. blood that doesn’t belong. and ghost sounds of acoustic guitars being played to wake me revolve in my memories.

i think that photos speak to me. their touch, prior to mine. and a certain ownership that comes with that.
everyone’s claim to your flesh.
and i’m left wanting.

i’m off today. my body is clumsy. and cumbersome.
my mind is racing and my pulse, strangely, is slowing.
i’m hosting a strange parasite. a grief. a sadness. an anger that has no origin. no direction. and no known cure.

i think, even though i still don’t have a job, i need this vacation with my friends more than i realized.