Perhaps I'm out of place...
I can help but to fight this feeling that I shouldn't be writing my stuff at home...At least not in this house...Anywhere but this house...It feels like every word that I let run down my arm and take its course through the pen, is another word that would taint this house...
Or, just maybe, the house would taint my words...
I don't feel myself when I write here...When I'm here, its like I'm back to high school...but not quite...I realized that since I've gone away to school, I was finished with high school before I had enough credits to graduate...When I come back, it feels like there's always something that keeps pulling me back down to that age of mind....As if my biggest threat is gonna be acne and detention...but I know its not...Even in high school I did...But I had nothing to compare it to so that I could actually realize that...But now I have...
I have soared over clouds and wish to walk no longer
I've come to understand that a great deal of my frustration in high school, explicit or implicit, stemmed from my desire to move on...Not so much to "grow up"...But to move on to things that matter...Things like love and friendship...hobbies and fulfilment...things like progress and correcting the lack thereof...
Which takes us back to my openning statement...I cannot write when I am home...When I'm here, I don't have that feeling of progress...not in my gut...My writing is that which is supposed to make you think...make you feel...How can you think and feel in a place that is stagnant...There is no frame of reference...
I dream of a place where my pens shall forever run dry...Because there can never be enough ink for what i have to say..."