A brief explanation:
I stopped writing a few years ago. I'm not sure when exactly it tapered off, but it was right about when I started college. The idea that I was spending time reading for fun when I should be reading my assigned material, or writing a story when I should be working on an important essay did a great job of killing the joy that came from expressing myself in creative ways. I think it might have been a contributing factor to my feeling down on and off for the last couple years. Writing was such an outlet for me when I was younger, even when I wasn't writing specifically about my own situation it felt good. It's just one more thing I owe to Turkey: meeting people who rekindled the kind of creativity I didn't realize I was missing so terribly.
Anyways, I've obviously been adjusting to life back home after a semester abroad, and it's been hard. A lot harder than I expected. The fact that it was temporary makes the experience all that more meaningful, but that doesn't mean I enjoyed the ending. So I decided to write about it in a form that I'm not sure what to call, but I guess that doesn't matter. I hope ya'll enjoy my efforts:
I'm adjusting in the best way I know how, which is to say, not at all. This house that was once a sanctuary is now a mere temptation I have every reason to stay in, every reason to be loved and comfortable and content. There the warmth of the red kitchen walls reflect the heat of simmering pots. Here the tiles are smooth and the porcelain touch of the bath cools me even as I submerge myself into the warmth of foam and water. Familiarity. My family is here, living their lives and pushing me to get on with mine while tightening their grip on every facet of my existence. They have no concept of the barbs their words hold, the words that tighten around my heart with gilded flowers on razor wire. Therein lies my unease. I have happiness here, but I am more than the ready smile on my lips.
I live my life in transition, clinging to my idealization with weary feet, shaking arms, and a racing heart of possibility. It pays no mind to the trembling muscles, the spasms of doubt. It does not know, only feels. Feels the wind in my hair as I look to the cynics of my life. They sit in such high towers; a better view to peer down through squinting eyes that long lost their trusting gleam. Contempt is their bread and my failure their butter, but here I taste such rich desire I cannot mind their hunger, only my own. I am the craving of raw pine and wild strawberries, the feel of shifting sand and water beneath my skin, the touch of lips that are not mine. There is a sweetness in my aching bones I had not felt before, and have been feeling since.
I should be so lucky that my wounds will not heal well. I want broad, knotted strokes of scar tissue to twist me up inside and out. Only then will I know that all this was real. This pain, this beauty, those slender moments of ecstasy as I peered across the table and met the ocean in his eyes. I am, more than ever, an extension of reality. More than ever a reason to reach out with wild desperation and feel brief slivers of time slip through outstretched hands. A reason to rejoice in the inherently ephemeral.
Adjustment is a nightmare only distant friends comprehend. We feel for each other as we feel absence in our lives, and rejoice in the simple, stinging pleasure of it all.