The concept of home is a bizarre one. It has so many meanings that no one is really sure what it is anymore, to some people it’s always going to be that house they brew up in or that town/city that they were raised in. For others it’s Thanksgiving dinner at the grandparents, when the family comes together in the same place and pretends that everything is just perfect. Some people never find it. Home isn’t quite that tangible though, at least not for me. It’s a distinct set of feelings. It’s safety, it’s knowing, it’s comfortable, it’s happy for no reason, it’s always and I’ve spent the last twenty-one years trying to find it. I used to think it was in those moments right before the sun came up, just as light barely brushed lips over the sky. I stood on a balcony overlooking the city of Dublin and I watched that happen to the sky and I just thought, “this is it,” I don’t really think it was. Sure, it made me happy, it gave me an inner calm like no other, but so does standing on the shore of the lake at midnight. So does walking through a living downtown, so does the right game of pool, or when I put the pen to paper and the words all come out just right. It’s never really been a place to me. That would be much to simple.
Then I thought I’d found it in that girl who wouldn’t let me run anymore. I laid with her some nights and watched her sleep curled up against my side and I couldn’t help but think that’s where I wanted to be for the rest of my life. I learnt that lesson the hard way. The words I’ve always used to hide or unmask, to find myself in the deepest of trees, and to hold on to that one last bit of sanity all betrayed me. Words, I got so caught up in them that I forgot just how easily manipulated that they are. But there was a time when action followed suit, I should have looked hard past a well drawn out act. I didn’t, but now that distance has pushed the limits of an act all the stage hands came out and unmasked the truth that I should have seen there.
I couldn’t write for a long time, not more than a few sentences. I didn’t trust the words anymore, it’s been weeks. It looks as though they’ve finally come back to me though, I’m having no trouble finding them now. Maybe this is the key to putting everything that’s broken back together. Writing has always been my escape and my cage, my way of explaining myself to myself, my place to run when nowhere else will work. It’s good to have it back, it’s good to feel it flow the way it’s supposed to. It’s nice that it’s not a few forced out sentences that have a tense cogitation to them. Writing is like my family, it’s my solid rock, it’s my wall, it’s my mask, it’s what keeps me together when everything else is falling apart.
I’m slowly becoming someone who I can’t stand anymore, looking in the mirror makes me sick. I hate myself, I’m in a strong sea of self-loathing where I can’t seem to keep my head above the waves. I smoke more than I used to, I can’t bring myself to care about classes anymore, I drink more nights than I don’t, I lost my job, I’ve been hanging around with a girl who I’m sure is trouble, but I can’t help myself with any of that. I’m becoming someone I hate.
I went from smoking half a pack a day or so to a pack and a half. It doesn’t really make me feel any better either. I pretty much just smoke cheap menthol now and that’s not like me at all. I can feel them killing me a little at a time and I really don’t care. Although, now that I’ve been fired and at the moment I don’t see any sure jobs that I’m going to get, I’m probably going to have to quit. Either that or stop putting gas in my car and start walking, one of those.
I need to force myself back on track with school before it’s further too late than it might already be. Mid-terms are next week, it’s time to study, it’s time to write papers. It’s time to wake the fuck up or pull out. That simple.
I’ve been in and out of bars pretty much my whole life, but I could never drink in them. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t drink, but it wasn’t as easy to get my hands on it. Now? Well, now I can drink when I want to as long as I’ve got cash and a few minutes. Dangerous is what that is. You know all those signs that say buzzed driving is drunk driving? I should probably pay closer attention to them, but what the hell, right? I mean, something is going to kill me, it might as well be because I made a stupid decision and took myself out as opposed to whatever else might be in store for me.