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Twenty-something. Former film student. Current artist and baker. Sleeps too much. Loves words. Small town southern gal at heart. Not often original but always sincere.
homesick, again.
I keep writing the same thing over and over. I can’t seem to ever get the words just right.

It always comes back to this. This feeling. I see a photo or hear a song or read an article or go for a bike ride at a particular time of day and it reminds me of someone or somewhere or some feeling. Everything reminds me of something. Just like that, the pit in my stomach opens and I’m taken over by this overwhelming sense of longing and despair and nostalgia. I’m homesick for them, for that city, for that feeling. For all the things I had but lost. For the things I never had but always wanted. For the things I thought I had but may have just imagined. I don’t know how to let things go. To give up all these ghosts. Maybe this is normal. How everyone is. Maybe everyone is walking around wearing their past like a moth eaten sweater salvaged from their dust covered attic and they’re just better at living with it. I never really say goodbye, even when I do. There’s always a part of me that remains unconvinced that it’s real. No matter how much time spans between then and now the memory feels as alive as the experience ever did. Worse, maybe. Like a bruise that doesn’t fade, always tender to the touch and I can’t stop pressing my fingers into it. I can’t recall a time when I haven’t feel this way in some capacity. I try not to let this feeling cloud my judgement, color the decisions I make. But I worry it does so whether I want it to or not. That it is so deeply rooted in my subconscious that it has effect without me even realizing it.

homesick, again.
I keep writing the same thing over and over. I can’t seem to ever get the words just right.

It always comes back to this. This feeling. I see a photo or hear a song or read an article or go for a bike ride at a particular time of day and it reminds me of someone or somewhere or some feeling. Everything reminds me of something. Just like that, the pit in my stomach opens and I’m taken over by this overwhelming sense of longing and despair and nostalgia. I’m homesick for them, for that city, for that feeling. For all the things I had but lost. For the things I never had but always wanted. For the things I thought I had but may have just imagined. I don’t know how to let things go. To give up all these ghosts. Maybe this is normal. How everyone is. Maybe everyone is walking around wearing their past like a moth eaten sweater salvaged from their dust covered attic and they’re just better at living with it. I never really say goodbye, even when I do. There’s always a part of me that remains unconvinced that it’s real. No matter how much time spans between then and now the memory feels as alive as the experience ever did. Worse, maybe. Like a bruise that doesn’t fade, always tender to the touch and I can’t stop pressing my fingers into it. I can’t recall a time when I haven’t feel this way in some capacity. I try not to let this feeling cloud my judgement, color the decisions I make. But I worry it does so whether I want it to or not. That it is so deeply rooted in my subconscious that it has effect without me even realizing it.