Popcorn on my A.C. again. The rain invariably resuscitates my desire to write; maybe it awakens the old melancholy. I realize, thinking, that my entire high-school experience could easily be expressed in terms of melancholy. Now that I sense the increasing marginalization of that strangely equivocal emotion, I wonder what replaces it. I wonder, also, if Trevor and I are distant because we've both lost it -- we've grown out of an essentially adolescent friendship, and have failed to restate our friendship in adult terms. I wonder why I avoided Erica so pointedly and callously.
I would never have thought of myself as an adult until recently. I hadn't directly entertained the idea until I came in from the storm a few minutes ago, sat down, and decided to think. I'm immature in so many ways -- I have the social skills of a well-meaning child, I do not love but am instead infatuated, I sit for hours and produce nothing, I am financially dependent.
So I probably wouldn't have noticed except for the rain. The rain is an irrepressible subconscious flashback, from which part of me now recoils in mild alienation. At some point, I became measurably (given the clumsy tools of untrained self-analysis) different from my accepted self-image. Perhaps some cute lil' neuron woke up and started pumping out scary psychoactives, or maybe my immune system finally drew up the plans for emo antibodies. I don't really know how this stuff works.
Mainly, I'm just tired and ought to be in bed already.
posted on Tuesday, September 05, 2006
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