Layers

Written earlier on the train into the city...


Oh, the sliding tableaux of past lives that coming home always exhudes. How a minute is a lifetime, existence sucked into the void of memory, to be tasted, tossed about, twirled on my tongue. Rehashed to death. Relived. Regurgitated again, and rehearsed for next year's run. I often feel like my life is lived in layers, that at every single moment I carry with me the live action portrayal of every other single stolen minute. I see glimpses of these half remembered days trunslucently, with hard edges here and there nosing out and intruding on this supposed reality, but nothing more. And then, I wonder where the division betwen then and now really lies, if life continues pulsing and beating and dancing once my presence is elsewhere. Who am I to say that my perception is getting it right?

I'm on my way into DC, thank christ, I don't think I could've stood quite another minute of suburban perfection oozing at me from all directions. Not today. Not with grades in. I feel better already, just sitting on the metro, like I'm sitting straighter, freer. Like I can handle myself so much better, so much more affectively, on my to somewhere else. I wish it weren't so, really I do. I ache for the days when I could attatch meaning to places, and never think about it again. I wish I could be content, could satisfy myself that easily. I can't fathom the day I put down roots, I can't imagine any place ever maintaining good enough.

Maybe Russia will cure me of the restlessness for a while--a temporary treatment. Or it'll make life even more unbearably stagnant once the real world resumes.

I love people watching...More than that I love people watching me watch them back...