Alive

...And talking to myself.

The activity tracker on Google Docs says I started writing this mess a little over a month ago. I initially gave up on it on account of depressing both myself and the voyeuristic victims of this medium.

It’s mid-March now. The sun quietly sets onto the fire escape outside my window. Then, there was nothing but snow – white, yellow, and brown – all-over. I don’t own snow shoes fit for my adult feet. Another day, another problem. That’s what it seemed:

My left eye is twitching. It’s been five days now, frankly it’s annoyed me since minute one. I was driving upstate in a storm of wind. My car, that isn’t even my car, is light, and flounced around the thruway. My dumb eye decided to follow suit, I guess in a flaily symbiotic dance. Two-hours-later, there stood my snow-caked house. And, twitch. Sleep didn’t do shit, thanks for asking.

It doesn’t hurt. The twitch reminds me I’m alive. Maybe I need that.

How poetic, profound I am! Being home is an activity that plagues me, colors me moody. And I’m glad it does. My house is a home among many others, my sensibility is nomadic and sprawling. I don’t wish to be tied-down to what I know on an intimate, expertly level. Let me be clear that there’s nothing wrong with where I’m from. Actually, it’s quite idyllic. Our house, the cushy neighborhood, my immediate family that I’m genuinely fond of.

I lose myself in the stagnancy, however. I’ve absorbed the pleasure of what it means to be truly fulfilled in all prowess. Interpersonally, professionally, and so on. This myriad of realizations would’ve never come to fruition if not for my time away at college. I’ll shit on my alma mater until I run out of air, but I’d be foolish to pretend that I’m not thankful for my education, and the many versions of me that I cycled through it.

Yeah yeah, white upper-middle class woman gets a liberal arts education and then complains about her hometown…fucking yawn! I understand the boringness of that presumption, I find it grossly annoying too, trust me. I’m nothing special. Everyone’s at least a bit cynical, and some more so (...hi).

And about that eye twitch: It still greets me everyday. It’s no longer constant, for which I’m thankful. But it often checks in on me. Reminding me there’s much to be accomplished, little untapped, little unearthed.

I’m no longer home. I hope I’ve made that rhetorically obvious. For I’ve taken advantage of the generosity (and fear) contained within the layers of parents’ love, and I’ve moved to Brooklyn. Eat your heart out, indie bitch!

My new room has two large windows that overlook a mesh of backyards, wind-swept and recovering from the rough winter. Can much authentically change if there’s a price tag attached? I argue that while rent is inevitable, wellness is forever. And I assert in full earnestness that the only emotionally-gratifying option, for me, was to move-out. New York is the knucklehead’s choice, for its proximity to home, and the connections and opportunities it holds.

I’m slowly figuring it out. There’s a market a couple blocks down that sells one-dollar strawberries, the family who runs the laundromat next-door is incredibly welcoming. I’ve been greeted with more smiles than scowls. I’ve missed the vitality of a city. I crave urgency and mutual passion, for which New York has gifted me. My comfortability will come with time, and some fuck-ups:

Comfort comes from sucking on my big front teeth. I enjoy the act of making sure they’re still there. There’s my habit of listening to reverb-saturated noise, drowning out my own telepathic waves of nonsense. Diamond Jubilee scores this rumination session today, there’s been a lot of Chanel Beads and Broadcast in the mix too. Melancholic stuff, yet not on the brink, you know. I’ve been sitting pretty much exclusively in the fetal position at my desk. I stare at some subpar art creation from high school that sits next to my journals that hold my insecurities as photos of my dead cats are taped right above those heavy-handed fixtures of the past. My cats stare right back at me.

My dead pets remind me I’m alive. I should be so lucky.

Photos of my dead cats are now fixed on the wall, beside my window. They’re perfectly adorned next to my sleepy head when I lay in bed. My room is a haven of the things, people, and oddities that I cherish. I see visions of my late great Aunt, a lifelong New Yorker; postcards from her travels outline the beautiful gold mirror I inherited from her. Presently, I’m listening to The Greatest, if you must know, a first-time listen. Chan Marshall’s a bit too sulky for my taste, I’ve established. It’s my fiftieth-or-so new listen this year. I don’t have a desk in my new place, yet, but I do own an ergonomic floor seat. Feels very bohemian.

I’m not quite tired as I am so metaphorically. What am I supposed to be doing, exactly? Before this stint, I found tales of the ‘post-grad slump’ to be somewhat corny. In the midst of it, I admit, they’re still corny. But these premonitions and stories are universal, though. Universal tales make the hardest, tangible impact. That’s why the Bible is the best-selling book of all time.

20-something-year-old apathetic confusion binds my friends, peers, and foes across the country. This foreign lack of structure tests us:

I’m swimming about a vat of nasty green Jello. One forceful punch to break free. Nothing, but everything, yet nothing at all is changing. Nothing in the sense that I am home for the time being, which I have deemed as defeat. Everything in the world is suddenly fresh. Mine for the taking.

I’m not sad. Maybe a little depressed, yes. Only a crazy person could be satisfied in my shoes, as I currently stand. I’m incredibly privileged doing what I’m doing, which appears to be absolutely nothing from a second-hand perspective. Trying, I am. Trying, I’m doing. Wearing myself thin from the personal pity party.

Oh but cheer up, you! Worth is neither linear nor objective. I got to let myself fail, for once. I think it’ll be good for me. Retrospectively, maybe, at least.

But hey, I can’t predict the future. That would be terrifying. I’m also not profound, that statement earlier was hyperbolic. Rather, I’m writing this, doing this, for myself, to remember I’m whole.

I am alive, after all.